


The False and the Fair

by bikadoo_2



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Fem!Jon, Female Jon Snow, Genderswap, Incest, Jon is born a girl
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-01-23 22:15:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 136,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18558961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bikadoo_2/pseuds/bikadoo_2
Summary: “Promise me, Ned,” Lyanna whispers, her hand turning to stone in his. “You have to protect her.”And so he does.Or … Lyanna Stark gives birth to a daughter in the Tower of Joy.





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,  
> Men were deceivers ever,  
> One foot in sea and one on shore. 
> 
> \--- William Shakespeare, 'Much Ado About Nothing'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Check out the trailer for this story here!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LFnAkF0KDT8&t=24s)
> 
> This fic updates every Monday. Subscribe for alerts.

When he finds her, she lays in a river of blood.

For all that Lyanna was a child of winter, he finds her locked in a tower in the mountains of Dorne, a wasteland of summer; in a room that smells of dying roses and rotting flesh.

His hands carry the blood of her guards, but she cares not when she gasps out his name, “ _Ned, Ned, Ned.”_

He thinks he is dreaming, for Ned has not seen his sister in more than a year. But here she is; laying before him, whispering his name as her own blood stains the featherbed. Her hands are like claws when she reaches out to him, and those grey eyes of her, those Stark eyes, are awash with relief.

Ned looks for chains, but the only chains he can find rest in the bundle in her arms.

“Lyanna,” He chokes, for he sees, now, what Benjen was hiding.

They had waged war for her, but they had been blind.

“I tried to leave when I found out about father,” Lyanna whispers, her hand clenching his, “about Brandon.”

He cannot think of them now, not now.

He cannot think of burning flesh, or how his brothers last letter had been stained by tears. He cannot think of how Jon Arryn had clasped his shoulder, and whispered _that winter must come for them all._  

He cannot see where Lyanna begins, and grief ends. He had battled, and he had warred, with her smile as his strength but now there is no smile. Now, there is only death, and sadness, and all that the stranger had claimed; for Lyanna wore her sorrow like a crown, and grief like a cloak.  

“I never wanted any of this to happen,” She whispers, her fingers trembling in his. Ned wants to hold her to his chest, and whisper that it is alright.

But he cannot.

Not when she wears a necklace of her own blood, and her shadow is death.

“I know,” Ned says, for he knows that Lyanna only ever wanted freedom.

Lyanna looks to the babe in her arms, who is mewling softly, and begins to weep. “He wished to call her Visenya.”

_He wished to name her for a cursed Queen._

Ned looks to the babe that his sister clutches, and he cannot stop the river of tears that escape him.

His sister looks to the babe, and shakes her head. “Her name is Lyarra. You have to protect her, Ned. You have to protect her from _him_.”  

“Lyanna…”

“Promise me, Ned,” Lyanna whispers, her hand turning to stone in his. “You have to protect her.”  

He looks to the babe, and can feel himself dying.

“Promise me.”

So Ned promises, and Lyanna dies.

* * *

Lyarra Snow has eyes the colour of amethysts.

When Ashara Dayne sees the babe, she turns away and looks to the cliffs beneath her window. “Mine looked like her.”

She speaks nothing else, not even when Ned presents her brothers sword.

He remembers dancing with Ashara before the war, at Harrenhal. It was a time when spring was still promised and when peace was still bountiful. _When I still had a family, and was still the second son_ , he thinks bitterly. She had been the most beautiful sight he had seen, but now, ghosts claw at her skin and shade her from the sun.

It is when he goes to mounts his horse that she finally speaks.

“How many would have been saved, my lord, if our good Prince Rhaegar did not choose your sister?” Ashara says, looking down to the babe in her arms. _The Princess that never was._ “Poor child, to be born in the shadow of her parents mistakes and to wear a crown of her mother’s blood.”

“She is my daughter,” Ned snaps, claiming the child from her arms. She rests in his chest, a cap of dark hair hidden by silk blankets. “And that is how she shall be known, how she shall remain.”

Ashara met his eyes, and Ned felt himself to be the child from the tourney once more. “The war took my brother, it took your sister, and now, it has taken your honour. When will it end, my lord?”

“It does not end.”

When he reaches the Boneway, he is told that Ashara Dayne is dead.

_It does not end, it seems._

Robert Baratheon sits on the Iron Throne when Ned returns to King's Landing, with a babe in his arms and a coffin carried by his men.

When Ned stands before him in that damned chair, in the same room his father and brother had been slaughtered, Ned remembers Ashara’s question.

“ _When will it end, my Lord?”_

The pain is a constant. His pain is the wind that blows through the Godswood, screaming in his ears. His pain is the storms that rages the night he arrives in the Kings Landing. His pain is the way Lyarra wails, crying for a mother she will never know. His pain is the box his sister is carried in, her corpse cold and her smile gone.  

“Tell me,” Robert says finally, when he sees no Lyanna. Ned cannot look at him when he tells him, for his sister’s voice is in his ears and her pleas haunt him like her ghost.

_“Protect her from him.”_

The words stick in his throat. “Lyanna is dead, your grace.”

The eyes of the storm don’t waver.

“How?”

“A fever,” Ned says, before he looks to his oldest friend.

When told of his loves demise, Robert Baratheon grasps at the blades that surround him and bleeds. If Lyanna had been wild in her grief, Robert was a King in his. There is no wailing, or weeping, or grief to be found, none at all. All that Ned can see is the blood that begins to drip onto the stone floor, and pool at the King's feet.

He stands, bleeding onto the floor, and Ned wonders if he has lost Robert as well.

“I loved her,” Robert whispers, his eyes trapped on his bleeding hand, “and she’s gone.”

Robert had expected a bride to be returned to him; instead, he received a corpse.

The King looks to the throne, and then to blood, and then to Ned. He still does not cry. “We went to war, Ned, for her. I am King, for her. I did it all, for her, and now she’s …”

 _Dead_.

The word isn’t said, but it seems to echo around them.

The King lets out a breath, and it is Jon that puts a hand on his shoulder to steady him. “The Gods are cruel, Robert. They give us women to love, and then they take them away.”

“Fuck the Gods,” Robert sneers, tears finally pouring down his face. It is jarring, to see a heavily bearded King, broad and strong and victorious, to be sobbing before his throne. “Fuck them all. I loved her, and they killed her. Fuck them all.”

Ned looks away from his Kings tears, for all he can hear is Lyanna’s pleas to keep her babe safe. And when that ends, all he can see is Elia Martell's broken body and how her blood had been disguised by a Lannister cloak.

_It does not end._

* * *

When they ride through the gates of Winterfell, Benjen is waiting for them.

“Ned,” He croaks, looking at the babe in his arms.

And then he is crying.

“ _Ned_ ,” He sobs again, and Ned can do nothing but hold Benjen to him. As Benjen whispers his brother’s name, all Ned can think is do is compare his brother’s grief to that of his sisters.

“I know,” Ned says, for he does.

When Ned had ridden off for war, they had both thought he would bring their sister back. They had been expecting a living girl, but all they had was a coffin and a bastard.

By the hearth of the fire, while Lyanna’s child sleeps in Benjens arms, he whispers, “She told you, then?”

“We went to war,” Ned begins, glaring at the fire. While it exists in the hearth, the fire also blazes in his heart – joining the betrayal that consumes him. “Brandon, and father died, all because she loved him.”

Benjen looks up at him, afraid. “Do you hate her?”  

 _To hate her for running would be like cursing the wind,_ he thinks.

“No,” Ned says, defeated. “I can’t hate her. I hate what she did, gods, I hate what she did.”

For how can Ned not hate what Lyanna had done, when it meant that she died in the end? For how can Ned not hate how she ran, when it meant everyone he loved perished at her hands?

Benjen is quiet for a moment before he whispers, “She used to say we should run away, to beyond the wall. Be the King and Queen of the Wildlings.”

They are quiet; solemn in their truth.

Benjen looks to the babe in his arms, who moves in her sleep. _Unaware,_ Ned thinks, _to who she is._ “What are you going to tell your wife?”

Ned has thought of Catelyn Tully often. The girl that had shed her cloak of red, white, and blue for his grey and white never quite left his thoughts. She had written that she was with child, and only a few moons prior had she written of son. _My son,_ he thinks, his chest clenching. _A son I haven’t met._ The girl with hair of flames who was promised to his brother had given _him_ a son.

_I have taken Brandon’s title, and his promised, and now I have a son that was supposed to be his. I sit on his throne, sleep in his bed, and all he has is a crypt._

“That she is my bastard,” Ned says, the words bitter in his mouth.

“She is not a bastard.”

The fire cracks, and whispers, “ _princess, princess, princess_.”

“Ben…”  

“They were _married.”_

“Enough,” Ned says, his eyes hard as he takes Lyarra from his brother’s arms. “We can never speak of this.”

“Don’t you think people will wonder,” Ben begins, “why the honourable Ned Stark came back from war with a child who has purple eyes?”

Ned closes his eyes in pain, before he looks to Lyarra. _When she sleeps, I can almost imagine she’s mine._

“People will wonder, and they will talk, and we will let them,” Ned says, resolute. “Lyarra is my daughter. She will be raised beside my son, and she will be a Stark.”

“No,” Ben says, pained. “She will be a Snow.”

The fire continues to burn, and they are quiet.

* * *

Catelyn Tully is a flame amongst snow.

She seems wrong in this place of winter, but Ned says nothing as she steps down from the litter with a bundle in her arms.

“My Lord,” Catelyn says as she curtsies, and Ned cannot help the way his heart soars at the sight of the red capped babe. _My son,_ the wind cries, _a Stark heir._

“My Lady,” Ned says, his eyes trapped on the child. “You remember my brother, Benjen?”

Catelyn looks to Benjen, who stands beside him, and smiles as he bows. “My Lord.”  

“My Lady.”  

But Ned has eyes only for his heir.   

“Your son,” Catelyn says, with a smile warmer than anything she has given him before. “Robb.”

 _In honour of the King,_ she had written.

When he had first read the name, it had thrilled him. _She has chosen it to please you,_ he had thought, before his sensibility had returned and he had realised that there may be many Roberts born in the next year.

But now the name is a reminder of the whispers that had left Lyanna’s lips, and of the starlet stain in the floor of the throne room where Elia and her babes had been discarded.

_Robb will not be like him._

“May I?” Ned says, awkward.

Catelyn deposits Robb into Ned’s arms, and Ned can hardly breath. _My son. My son. My son._

He smiles, wide and joyful. “My lady, you have given me the greatest joy.”

Catelyn seems taken aback by his smile, but she returns it nevertheless and looks to their boy. “He is the most beautiful boy, my lord, and I still cannot believe he is mine.”

 _Ours,_ he wants to say.  

Robb mewls in his arms, and Ned looks down, smiling as his son opens his eyes. A part of him hopes that there are grey eyes beneath those eyelids of his, but when Robb peels his eyes open, they are a bright, Tully blue.  Robb blinks up at his father, with eyes that hold the summer sky, before he lets out a cry and Catelyn scoops him up, holding him to her chest.

His arms feel empty without his son, but Ned thinks they will always feel empty now.

Ned introduces his wife to the household, but with every passing minute, Robb makes little cries until finally he begins to wail.

“Tis the cold, my lord,” Catelyn says, bouncing Robb before she looks down at him. “And he is hungry. Mayhaps we should…”  

“Yes, yes,” Ned says, his hand going to the small of his wife’s back as he led them inside. “We shall take him to the nursery – there’s a wet nurse there-”

“A wet nurse?” Catelyn’s face folds in confusion. “My Lord, I feed our son from my own breast. Robb needn’t have a wet nurse.”

Ned looks to her in surprise.

“I apologise, my lord, if you went to some trouble,” Catelyn begins, her face twisting in guilt. Even with such an ugly emotion, Catelyn is still beautiful. “I feel like such a fool.”

“Oh, no, my lady.” _You must tell her now._ “The wet nurse has been feeding my daughter.”

Shock fills Catelyn’s face, and she stumbles. “Your daughter?”

“My bastard,” Ned says, his gut twisting, “Lyarra Snow.”

Ned can see Lyanna, asking for his promise. Ned can hear cries, as she placed the bundle in his arms. “ _Promise me, Ned.”_

Catelyn’s eyes harden, and her lips thin. Her beauty becomes a storm, and Ned soon realises that beneath Catelyn’s porcelain skin, is steel.

“You bring a bastard into these walls?” Catelyn breathes. “You bring your shame into my keep?”

“My lady-”

“You have _shamed_ me!” Catelyn snarls, holding her son tighter to her chest as her face folds into surprise at her own outburst. She takes a step away from him before she regains her composure, her eyes of the river growing hard.

“My lady,” Ned begins, offering her his arm. “Perhaps we should continue in my solar?”

She does not take his arm.

Ned closes the door behind his wife, and she exhales deeply, turning to her husband with a cold resolve. “I expect her to be sent away, my lord.”

_“Promise me, Ned.”_

“No,” Ned says. “My daughter will remain with me.”

“Your _bastard_ can be a ward somewhere else,” Catelyn snaps. “Mayhaps the Vale, or in the South, or perhaps even in Kings Landing. I hear the King has many a bastard himself. She could join the litter there.”  

Ned allows her to talk, anger fuelling her words, before he sighs. “No.”

Catelyn did not expect to be denied, he knows that. She shakes her head in confusion, and suddenly, Ned knows what it means to have a wife scorned. When he was at war, he would think about his one-night wife, who had barely met his gaze in the Sept and whose bed was just as cold as her kiss. He had hoped that she would come to accept him, when they were in the North.

He was not Brandon, and he was not the heir, but dragon fire had claimed her betrothed and Ned had taken his place. Now, Ned knows he will never know her love; just her fury.

“My Lord, to have a bastard dishonoured our marriage, but to force me to live with it… you are _shaming_ me,” Catelyn says, her eyes glassy. “What have I done for you to hate me so?”

Pain claws at his chest, and Ned takes a step forward. “I could never hate you, my lady. She is my daughter, and her place is with me.”

“Her place is with her mother!” Catelyn shouts, her eyes wide and her cheeks flushed.

Her words are wood to a flame, and Ned cannot keep his anger from his wife then.

“Lyarra is my daughter, and she shall stay with me, in Winterfell,” Ned says coldly, “for this is her home, my lady. Do not ask me to send her away again, for you will not find my response very pleasant.”

Catelyn’s hands tighten on their son, and her lips thin. “I see.”

“ _Promise me, Ned.”_

“I shall have a cradle moved to my chambers, then, for I will not have the _heir_ of Winterfell sharing a nursery with a base born _Snow_ ,” Catelyn sneers, and Ned nods, saying, “If that is your wish, my lady.”

“It is,” She responds, cold.

 _When will it end,_ Ashara had once asked.

 _It doesn’t end._  

* * *

The first time Lyarra smiles, Ned is holding her.

She has been unsettled for days now, and the only place she does not wail is in his arms. So he goes over the ledgers, and corresponds with his bannermen with Lyarra in his arms, listening to how she babbles nonsense. Ned cannot calm Robb as well as he can Lyarra, for it seems whenever Robb cries it is only his wife that can calm him.

But Lyarra only has Ned.

And yet when it comes to her smile, it is Benjen she has eyes for.

Benjen opens the door, and grins when he sees his niece. “Lya!”

“She has been uneasy all morning,” Ned says as he passes Lyarra to his brother, his eyes trapped on the correspondence with Lord Umber.

Benjen grins, boyish and young. “She doesn’t look uneasy.”

Ned looks up from his letter, and feels the world closing in. Lyarra is smiling, big and crooked, and _gods she looks just like her mother._

“You were always Lya’s favourite,” Ned says as he smiles. “Of course _she_ smiles for you.”

Ben meets his brothers gaze, and they are silent – their grief a chasm between them. There is anger there too, unspeakable secrets that are better left unsaid.

“I’ve actually come to ask you something,” Ben says, sitting down as Lyarra begins to chew at his jerkin strings.

“Yes?”

“I wish to join the Night's Watch.”

Ned wants to deny him immediately. Ned wants to refuse his request. Ned wants to tell him that he belongs here, in Winterfell, safe and well. Ned wants to tell him that the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.

He can’t, though. Ned can’t refuse him, for he remembers another conversation, where Lyanna had pleaded not to be betrothed and his father hadn’t listened.

“ _Please, Papa,”_ She had cried, “ _please don’t do this.”_

And then Lyanna had run from the walls she had pleaded to stay within, on the back of a Rhaegar Targaryens horse.

_Lyanna had been refused the freedom to choose, and so she ran. I will not lose Ben, too._

And so he sighs, looks to Lyarra, and realises he’s lost them all now.

All, except his Lyarra.

It is a moon later when Benjen decides to go. The recruiter has already mounted when Ben stands before Ned, holding Lyarra tightly to his chest as he whispers in her ear. She is near six moons old now, and she has wild raven curls. She has the look of the North, save for her eyes. No, her eyes were as Southern as her father.

Catelyn stands beside him, with Robb in her arms and an expression cut from marble. His wife looks at Lyarra like one would look at poison, but Ned pretends not to notice. Ned knows what she must be thinking, about why Ben was holding tightly to his bastard niece and had simply ruffled his trueborn nephew’s hair.

_“Promise me, Ned.”_

“Now, you be a good girl for your father,” Ben whispers to Lyarra, holding her tightly and inhaling the scent of winter roses. “You have Stark blood, Lya. Be strong…” He whispers, not speaking the final three words he so wishes to say; _like your mother._  

Ben passes Lyarra back to Ned, and mounts his horse.

It is only Catelyn that sees the tears Benjen Stark sheds for his bastard niece.

She asks, later, when they are feasting on game from the hunt earlier in the day. “My Lord, Benjen was awfully upset when he said farewell to your bastard.”

Ned sips at his wine. “Yes.”

Catelyn traces the rim of her goblet. “I know you have claimed her, my lord, but his behaviour today, his closeness to her, it speaks more of a fathers love than that of an uncle.”

“If I remember,” Ned begins, his voice tight, “your uncle was quite fond of you, as well.”

Catelyn looks to her husband, pursing her lips. “But he barely seemed that attached to Robb, my lord, and I…”

“Benjen is not Lyarra’s father, my lady,” Ned says, looking to her with pity. _She thinks I have dishonoured her, and the pain is too great that she would find an excuse for it. Mayhaps I have dishonoured her with this lie._ “I am Lyarra’s father.”

Catelyn looks to her plate, and her brow puckers as she taps her lips. “Excuse me, my lord, I fear my appetite is gone.”

Ned watches his wife leave, and he wonders when it will get easier.  

“ _Promise me, Ned.”_

* * *

Years pass, and so they welcome summer.

With summer, comes warmth.

When Catelyn had first come to Winterfell, Ned had thought his wife would stare at him with those eyes of ice forever. Yet with time comes forgiveness and as their son grows, so does the warmth.

But Catelyn never does warm to Lyarra.

Not even when they have their river babe daughter, a girl Ned calls Sansa, does Catelyn warm to Lyarra. When Cat beckons for Ned to retrieve Robb, Ned asks to bring his other daughter and Catelyn, who wore a smile so bright that she could rival the summer sun, becomes as cold as a winters snow and Ned knows Lyarra will not meet her sister that day.  

So he waits until his wife is taken by her exhaustion before he retrieves his snow babe from her room.

“Now, you must be gentle,” Ned says as he brings Lyarra, and Robb into the nursery. Sansa sleeps peacefully, in a blanket made of wool, and Lyarra almost bursts when Ned kneels before her.

She is but three years old, and there is already a wildness in her that makes Ned ache. She seems to jump with each step, her curls a messy array and her eyes bright at the prospect of a new sister.

“Is this my sister?” Lyarra asks, leaning over Ned’s arm to see the babe that he cradled.  

“Yes, Lya,” Robb says, rolling his eyes, “this is Sansa.”

Lyarra looks confused. “You’ve already met her?”

“Yes,” Robb proclaims proudly. “Mama let me see her first.”

Lyarra looks quizzically at Robb, her eyebrows furrowing. “But why would Robb see her first, Papa?”

Ned sighs. “Robb’s mother decided it to be so.”

“The Lady Stark?” Lyarra asks, each word an assault he does not expect. In a time past, Lady Stark was a title that belonged to a different Lyarra; and how he yearns for that time again.  

“Yes,” Ned says, and Lyarra nods, her expression becoming sombre before she peers over to her sister once more.

“She is pretty, Papa,” Lyarra decides, thinking over her words carefully. “But she does not look like me.”

Ned smiles, and looks to Lyarra with a fierceness before he says, “That is because Sansa is a wolf born of the river, but you, Lyarra, are a wolf born of the snow.”

* * *

Lyarra cries the first time she is called a bastard.  

She is but a girl of eight when Theon Greyjoy snarls out the name, and tells Robb why Lyarra cannot come to the feast.

“It is because she is a Snow,” He says, his eyes cold as they land on her.  

“But why?” Robb asks. “What does it matter if she’s a Snow? Father says she has Stark blood.”

“Because, little Lord,” Theon snarls, “she is a bastard, and bastards are nothing but the shame of their fathers.”

Lyarra cannot let them see her cry, so she runs and disappears into the Godswood. The weirwood reminds her of Lady Stark, with its bleeding leaves and white skin, but she pays it no mind as she climbs the tree. Tears blur her vision, for she cries and cries at the thought of being her father’s shame.

Why could she not have been born from Lady Stark? Why could she not have had hair of red instead of the hair of her father? Why could she not have been born with blue eyes, with _Tully_ eyes, rather than the eyes of Valyria.  

_Why can I not be a trueborn daughter of Lady Stark, and father? Why can I not have what Robb has?_

But she is not trueborn; she is a bastard, if what Theon says is true. _Father has never treated me as if I am his shame,_ she thinks, before she chokes on a sob and wonders if that is why Lady Stark does not treat her as she treats Robb, or Sansa, or even baby Arya. _Arya, who looks like me, who was born of the Snow._

When her father had presented the newest baby to Lyarra, she had been shocked.

“ _But she looks like me,”_ She had said to her father, and he had chuckled.

“ _Yes,”_ Father had said, “ _she has our look, Lya.”_

 _“Like a Snow?”_ Lyarra had asked.

Father had looked at her with his grey eyes, and had said firmly, “ _Like a Stark.”_

_But I am not a Stark._

_I am a Snow._

“LYARRA!”

Lya shrinks into the trunk of the tree, holding her knees to her chest as her father’s voice bounds through the Godswood. _He will take the strap to me, as he has done to Theon before._ Theon had received her father’s fury more than once, but Lyarra had been spared from the threat of her father’s strap – having only received the cane of Lady Stark once, when she pushed over Old Nan in the stairwell.

Lyarra thinks it better, if she hides away in the weirwood and let the Gods take her. She prays, then, for the Old Gods to take her from Winterfell, so that her father might not have to bear the shame of a bastard. _I don’t want to be here if they think I am shameful. I don’t want to make father sorry that he has kept me here._

It gets dark quickly, and Lyarra only has her coat to keep her warm. Even though summer reigns, it is still the North and so it still snows. She trembles at the chill in the air and tries her best to ignore her father’s calls. When her father’s shouts halt, Lyarra decides she must move, and so she finds herself stumbling through the snow to the glass gardens.

It is warm in the gardens.

She is careful not to touch any of the flowers, but Lyarra gazes at them in wonder. Greens, and reds, and pinks bloom, but it is the blue rose that Lyarra finds herself sitting beneath.

Ned finds her there, beneath a bushel of winter roses.

When he sees the blue petals contrasted against the indigo eyes of his daughter, he is pained. For the last time he had seen such a sight was nine years prior, when the dragon prince had bestowed a wreath of winter roses on his sister’s lap. They were supposed to be a crown of love, and beauty, but the roses that Rhaegar had placed atop Lyanna’s head turned out to be nothing but a crown of death.

Ned cannot help but sigh, in great relief, at the sight of Lyarra. He wants to shake her, and ask her where she has been, for they had checked the glass gardens before and she was nowhere to be found. But he cannot bring himself to pepper his girl with questions. Instead, Ned takes Lyarra into his arms and holds her small body to his chest – his heart pounding a swan song.

_You didn’t lose her. You found her. All is well._

“Why did you run, Lyarra?” Ned asks, anguished. “Don’t you know how cold it gets? Don’t you know how dangerous it is, to be outside this late?”

Lyarra looks to her father, her eyes of purple filling with tears before she sobs. “I’m sorry, Papa. I didn’t mean to make you cross.”

Ned’s face softens, and he shakes his head. “I’m not cross, Lya. I was just very scared.”

“Scared? But _you_ cannot be scared, Papa.”

“Of course I can be scared, Lya,” Ned murmurs, cupping her cheek. “Any man who does not feel fear is no man at all. Even the strongest of us feel afraid, my love.”

Lyarra looks to her father’s lap, her bottom lip becoming drawn by her teeth. “And shame? Papa, do you feel shame?”

Ned is confused, but it only lasts for a moment before Ned knows what his daughter means. “I feel no shame, Lyarra.”

“But I am a bastard,” Lyarra whispers, “and bastards are their fathers shame.”

Ned shakes his head, and lifts Lyarra so that her eyes meet his. “Lyarra, you are not my shame… _you_ are my greatest joy.”

She blinks at him, and Ned can feel himself becoming lost in a different time. “ _That’s Prince Rhaegar,”_ Robert had whispered, wine on his breath and excitement in his eyes. The sight of the dragon Prince was one they had been waiting for, but when he turned his indigo eyes on to their party, Ned can remember the melancholy he saw there. “ _See how soft he is,”_ Robert had chuckled. “ _I’m going to beat him in the joust tomorrow.”_

Ned had ignored Roberts words, and in time, they have become harder to recall. But never would Eddard Stark forget the sadness that Rhaegar Targaryen carried with him, nor would he able to. The Gods had made sure of that, when they blessed Lyanna’s girl with her father’s eyes. _This is the penance I pay,_ Ned thinks, _for the sins of my sister._

Looking to Lyarra, he wishes he could rid her of the sorrow her eyes carry. It is too like him, too obvious to hide. And how desperately eh wants to hide her from the world, and keep her from harm.

Sighing, Ned presses a kiss to Lyarra’s head. “Your name is not your shame, nor is it mine. When I first saw you, I loved you, just as I loved Robb, and Sansa, and Arya.  Do you understand?”

“But I’m not a Stark,” Lyarra whispers. “I am a Snow. I am a Bastard.”

“Yes,” Ned says, although it pains him. _For she can never know who she could have been, if her mother had lived and her father had won the war. A true Princess, an heir to that damned throne._ “You are. But do you know what else you are?”

“What?”

“The granddaughter of Lyarra and Rickard Stark,” He tells her. “Do you know who they are?”

Lyarra nods, for she listens to her history. “Yes, Papa. They are your Mother and Father.”

“Yes,” Ned says, “they were. Do you know why you share a name with your grandmother?”

Lyarra shakes her head.

“Because I loved my mother so very much,” Ned says, his finger catching a stray, raven curl, “for she was good, and kind, and as strong as a winters snow. So when I saw you, my winter babe, I knew there was no name but hers that I could give you. You may have Snow as a name, but you also have another name. That is the greatest honour I could have ever given you, Lyarra. You must be proud of it.”

Lyarra nods, solemn. “I will be, father.”

Ned stands, and offers her his hand. “Do not listen so much to what Theon says, Lya. He may be cruel, but it is because he is suffering and we must be kind to him.”

“But he is mean, and a Greyjoy,” Lyarra snaps. “He called me a bastard.”

“I know,” Ned says, his grey eyes becoming like the stone of the castle walls. “But pain can blind even the best of us.”

Lyarra shakes her head, petulant. “No. It wouldn’t blind me – never. I would never say that to anyone.”

Ned laughs, shaking his head at his daughter’s words. “You called Robb a slug the other day! Do you truly think your brother a slug?”

“No,” Lyarra murmurs, shaking her head. “I was angry.”

“And so is Theon.”

Ned looks back to the winter roses that bloom in the corner, before he glances down at Lyarra – whose cheeks are flushed by her own anger and whose eyes, while solely her fathers, held the same fire that Lyanna’s once had. If Ned closed his eyes, he could almost pretend he was a boy again, and his sister was standing before him – petulant and angry and as beautiful as the northern lights.

But he is not a boy, and Lyanna is not before him; she is dead, long buried in the crypts beneath the grounds he stands, and in her place, is the daughter she left him.

_I cannot say her name, cannot think of her face, without becoming chained by the pain it possesses._

Ned had not spoken Lyanna’s name for years, until Arya was born. The thought of the babe that so looked like his sister, that so looked like Lyarra, brought a smile to his lips. Although his children have given him the greatest joys, they have all looked like his wife – beautiful, _so beautiful_ , but they have the Tully look. When Arya was presented to him, he had whispered, “ _Oh, but she has Lya’s look.”_

His daughter, with her dark hair and grey eyes, did not cause Ned the pain that Lyarra did. For whenever he looked at Arya, he saw his mother, and sister, and all the Starks before her.

But when he stares at Lyarra, the girl he had brought home from Dorne, sometimes he can only see that day in the Tower. Sometimes he can only see Rhaegar, and how his indigo eyes were haunted, and sometimes, he can only see her sister Rhaenys, who even in death had her eyes wide open. But most of the time, when he sees her playing with Robb or when he hears her laughter, he can only see Lyanna, and how beautiful she had once been, before she too became a ghost.  

When he looks at Lyarra, Ned can only see the dead… and he hates himself for it.

_I must be better. I have to be better. I promised her, after all._

For now, as Lyarra mumbles to herself about ‘stupid Theon’, Ned clings to the ghosts that act as her shadow, and says, “Lyarra, would you like to come see something?”

Lyarra looks up, and her brows furrow. “What, Papa?”

“Gather some of the roses,” Ned says, “I wish to show you someone.”

When Lyarra stands before the statue of Lyanna Stark, she does not weep or tremble, nor smile or wonder. Instead, she stands before the stone and shifts from foot to foot, before she looks to her father and says, “Is Lyanna the one that Rhaegar stole?”

_Stole._

“Yes,” Ned says, nodding as he looks to the girl that knows nothing of the woman before her. _She was your mother,_ he wants to say. _She was brilliant and beautiful and she bled to birth you. I want you to know her. I want you to see her. Gods, I want you to be nothing like her._  

“She looks very sad,” Lyarra whispers, looking up to the statue. “I would be sad too, if someone stole me.”

Her words are so wrong. To Ned, they are poison and he cannot think of Lyarra ever sharing her mother’s fate. “You will never let anyone steal you, Lyarra. You’re a wolf, after all and wolves can’t be stolen.”

Lyarra is quiet for a moment. “But she was.”

“Yes,” Ned whispers, placing the rose at Lyanna’s feet. “And we all paid for it.”

* * *

Her stitches are awful and Septa Mordane tells her so.

It is not the disdainful eye that Septa Mordane views her with that spurs her escape; it is the way Sansa chitters about her _half-sister._ Lyarra can bear the insults of Theon Greyjoy, but she cannot bear to see the sister she once danced with look at her with the same disdainful eye and mutter _half-sister._

Lyarra finds herself in the training yard, her skirts dirtied and her face flush against the cold wind. _If Lady Stark finds me, I’ll be strewn from here to Kings Landing,_ she thinks as she watches Robb and Theon train.

“Oi!” Rodrick calls, and Lyarra finds herself caught. “Little Lady Snow, what are you doing out of your lessons?”

Rodrick does not look at her as the others do, and for that, Lyarra is glad. Rodrick was the first to teach her how to use a bow and arrow; the first to gift her a blade. _But for all Rodrick’s kindness, he would not want Lady Starks wrath to befall him._

“Lyarra!” Robb whines, narrowing his eyes. “You interrupted, again!”

Lyarra rolls her eyes. “Well, mayhaps if you weren’t rubbish at it than I needn’t interrupt!”

Robb narrows his eyes at her but the grin doesn’t leave his lips. “Oh, of course, I’ve forgotten that you are perfect judge of swordsmanship.”  

“Mayhaps I am,” Lyarra says, grinning. “After all, I am the only one who has mastered small blades.”

Robb throws down his practice sword then, and runs towards her. Lyarra squeaks, and bolts for the Godswood – knowing that if Robb was to catch her, there would be seven hells to pay. _And if father knows I was in the training yard, he will likely have me eat with the dogs._

Lyarra ran as quickly as her legs would allow it, her steps quiet against the grass as she found the wood. She let out a laugh as she sees Robb slip in the mud, only to stumble on the most unwanted sight.

“Father!” Lyarra gasps, her eyes going wide at the sight of his bloodied great sword.

“Lyarra?” Ned asks, standing as Robb comes running into the wood. Anger crosses his face then, and once again, the Lord of Winterfell is before them. “Robb.”

“Gods be good, Lya,” Robb hisses beside her. “Look what you’ve done.”

“What _I’ve_ done!?!” Lyarra pushes Robb to the ground, angry. “You’re the one who cannot be told the truth without acting like a wildling with a stick!”

“Hey,” Ned says, standing before his children, “what is the meaning of this? Why are you out of your lessons, Lyarra?”

Lyarra huffs. “I just left for five minutes, Papa, nothing more.”

“But you disobeyed your Septa? Again?” Ned asks, and Lyarra bristles under his accusation.

She grows like smoke rises, and Ned thinks he is looking at a ghost each time he lays his eyes upon her.

“I didn’t mean to, father.”

“Lyarra,” Ned snaps.  

Lyarra looks to the ground, defiance in her jaw. “Sansa called me her half-sister again.”

Ned sighs, but his harshness does not soften. “That is no excuse, Lyarra. You need to be educated, and you will not leave your lessons again, do you understand?”

Lyarra nods, and Robb looks up at his father. “But, father-”

“Do not start, Robb,” Ned warns, shaking his head. “You should not have fallen to Lyarra’s behaviour.”

Lyarra looks behind her father as he speaks to Robb, at the bloodied sword beneath the white of the weirwood. The words burst from her lips before she can help them, “Why is Ice bloody, father?”

Ned halts in his words, and casts his gaze to his daughter. “There was a deserter, from the Night's Watch.”

Lyarra’s eyes do not leave the sword as she asks, “So you killed him?”

“Yes,” Ned says. “The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.”

Lyarra looks to her father, before glancing back at the bloody sword.

_It must be an awful fate, to lose your head._

* * *

When they are visited by Lord Karstark, Lyarra is told she cannot attend the feast.

It is her father that tells her, for all that Lady Stark may hate her, she is not a cruel woman. Lyarra almost laughs at the thought, of Lady Stark not being cruel. While she was loving to her children with auburn locks, and eyes of blue, she was hateful to the child with dark Starkness.

Sometimes, Lyarra likes to think that the only reason Lady Stark hates her is because of her Stark colouring. _She is a woman of honour,_ Lyarra can remember thinking, _and mayhaps her honour is bruised that she can only produce children of the river, rather than children of the North._

She feels guilty almost immediately after the thoughts enter her head, for Lyarra knows that Robb, Sansa, Arya and even little Bran have as much of the North in their blood as she does. And then there is Arya, who is as dark and Stark as Lyarra is, and Lyarra knows then that Lady Starks hate does not stem from her colouring.

 _She hates me because I am the walking proof that her husband loved another,_ Lyarra thinks, and when she sees how her father looks upon her, she sometimes wonders if perhaps her Lord father loves her mother still.

 _He won’t even tell me if she was a scullery maid, or a Highborn._ But Lyarra had heard the whispers, of course, and she knows the view that most have. It was when Lord Umber had visited, and Lyarra had been allowed at the lower tables of the feast, that his tongue had loosened and he had said for all that were there that _Little Lyarra Snow has the look of a fallen star._

Lady Stark had stared at her with eyes of ice, and Lyarra had wanted nothing more than to disappear into the snow that she was named for. While Lady Stark did not banish her from the hall then, her father quickly informed her that she would not attend any more formal feasts, for fear that her presence might offend the stature of the guests.

It had been Theon that had told her the nature of Lord Umbers drunken riddle.

“ _Don’t you know what they say, Lady Snow?”_ He had slurred, his first taste of wine seeming to be too much for him. " _They say you’re Ashara Daynes babe.”_

 _“Who?”_ She had asked, stumbling.

“ _You know the story, don’t you?”_ Theon had laughed. “ _Your honourable Lord Father stole into Lady Dayne’s bed, and she produced a bastard with indigo eyes – the same as her own. And then your Lord Father collected you from Dorne, and she threw herself from a cliff.”_

She had never imagined that her mother was dead.

But when Theon had spat her father’s secret, she had wept as the heavens above did – her grief a storm that could bring down any castle.

_My mother had bore my shame, and had thrown herself from her palace because of it._

Lyarra watches the courtyard from above her window, envy flushing through her as she sighs. She nearly jumps out of her skin when the door swings open, with Robb’s grinning face meeting her eyes.

“Gods be good, stupid, why are you here!?!” Lyarra exclaims, going to shut the door. “If your Lady Mother finds out that you stowed away from the feast she’d have me scrubbing the kitchen floors for a moon.”

“Oh, c’mon, Lya, you know you want me here,” Robb grins. He is not yet ten and two, but he has grown recently, just as she has, yet she is still the taller and he has yet to pass her lankiness. Robb pulls some sweet bread from his sleeve, and a cake of apple, to which Lya grins. “I come bearing gifts.”

“I forgive you then.” Lyarra grins, taking the apple cake from him as she sits down beside the fire – her skirts gathering the ash of the floor. “Tell me, then. How is it, being treated as the almighty heir of Winterfell by Lord Karstark? Has he talked your ear off about one of his daughters yet? Father says he’s not yet made a match for you, but Sansa tells me that Lady Stark suggested someone from the Riverlands.”

Robb narrows his eyes at talk of brides. “Shut up, Lya, or we’ll start talking about your prospects.”

Lyarra snorts. “Prospects? I am a bastard, a Snow of the North. The only match I’d receive is one with the Silent Sisters.”

“I’d pay thousands of dragons to see you as a silent sister.” Robb laughs, and Lyarra bristles – kicking him with her foot.

“You’re more of an arse than a mountain mule,” Lyarra snapped, glowering.

Robb smiles at Lyarra, shaking his head. “There’s news, though. Want to hear it?”

“Of course.”

“I am to be fostered,” Robb says, grinning broadly, “with Lord Karstark for a whole year.”

“A whole year?” Lyarra asks, her eyes wide. “Gods, Robb, father will never allow it, _surely._ ”

“Father wouldn’t accept a betrothal, so he let him foster me instead.” Robb laughs. “Lord Karstark says he is going to allow me to patrol the northern lands, with his sons. Can you believe it?”

The thought of being without Robb makes Lyarra uneasy, for they have never been without each other. But she cannot be as uneasy as she wishes to be, so she smiles brightly and hugs him.

“That’s amazing, Robb.” Lyarra grins broadly. “Who’d have thought you’d actually be fostered? Father clings to us all like a mother hen would.”

Robb chuckles, before he turns his Tully eyes onto her. “Mayhaps that’s just the way he treats you, Lya.”

Her brows furrow. “Don’t be silly, Robb. I’m just a bastard.”

“Yes,” Robb agrees, “but even you can’t deny that father thinks specially of you.”

Lyarra shrugs. “I don’t know – I’ve never thought of it, really.”

Robb is quiet, the fire the only sound in her chambers, until he wonders aloud, “Theon thinks it’s because he loved your mother.”

Lyarra turns away from Robb, annoyed that he would broach this subject. “Robb, he loves your Lady Mother…”

“Yes, now I suppose he does,” Robb says, as pensive as Winter, “but can you not love two people at once?”

Lyarra shrugs. “She’s dead – what does it matter?”

“Theon thinks it’s because she’s dead that it matters,” Robb drawls, looking to her. “Theon says that he still loves her ghost, and that sometimes, at Starfall, they hear Lady Ashara calling for father.”

Lyarra rolls her eyes, scoffing. “Oh, you believe in ghosts now, Robb?”

“I have to,” Robb grins, “I am going to a place of wights and Night Kings.”

Lyarra laughed. “How old are you? Two?”

“Barely.” Robb laughs, before he sighs. “I leave with Lord Karstark on the sennight.”

“So soon? Surely father would not wish to see you to leave so quickly. Surely _Lady Stark_ would not wish you to go so soon.”

“She did have a bit of a wobbly lip.” Robb snickers, before his kind face softens at Lyarra’s harsh gaze. “I know she can be hard to you…”

“Hard?”

“…but she was shamed,” Robb says softly. “Maybe without me here, she might be easier on you.”

“When I’m not distracting the ‘heir to Winterfell with my childish games’?” Lyarra quotes his Lady Mother, scowling. “Oh, I’m sure she’ll find some other scab to pick at.”

“Lya.”

Lyarra shrugs, dismissing the topic before she sighs and turns to the fire. She watches the embers as they crack and fall, her eyes following as the smoke rises and ash fills the air. “I’ll miss you.”

Robb smiles, and it reminds her of the sun. “I promise it won’t be that long.”

If Lyarra had known that was a lie, she would have never allowed herself to smile.

* * *

It is a year after Robb leaves that her father tells her she is to be sent away too.

“But, why?” Lyarra asks, tears stinging at her eyes at the thought her father was angry with her.

_I never thought he would send me away._

Her father softens at the sight of her crestfallen face, and quickly appeases her with a smile. “No, Lyarra, it is not a bad thing. You know the Ladies of Bear Island?”

“Lady Mormont?” Lyarra asks, unsure. “What of her?”

“She has asked for your presence in her household,” Ned says, clenching his fist. “Just as Robb has been fostered, I wish for you to be as well.”

“Fostered?” Lyarra echoes, the word bitter in her mouth. “But father, I am a girl. A bastard.”  

“A bastard born of Stark blood,” Ned says, his tone strong. “And yes, a girl, but girls can be fostered too, Lya.”

Lyarra looks to her feet, and bites her lip as she asks, “Is it because Lady Stark wants me gone?”

Her father is before her in that moment, and wipes away her tears. “Catelyn has no power when it comes to you. You are my child, my daughter, my blood, and just because she struggles with my mistake does not mean she wishes you gone.”

 _Honourable men don’t lie, father,_ she wants to say, but she doesn’t.

“What will I do there?” Lyarra asks, fisting her breeches. Lady Stark had tried, and failed to get her into skirts, but her Lord Father never did mind that she preferred breeches to gowns on occasion.

“You will continue your lessons,” Ned begins, “and you will act as a companion for Lady Mormont’s daughters. She has girls your age, Lya – Jorelle, and Lyra is a little older. Little Lyanna is but six. Lady Mormont may even take you on as a cupbearer, if she deems you of value.”

Lyarra leans back in her chair, looking to her father. “Am I to continue with my training? Rodrick has finally allowed me to handle a proper blade, father-”

“Lady Mormont would want nothing more than for you to continue your training.” Ned smiles, and cups his daughter’s cheek. “Know that I’m only doing this so that you learn what it means to be a Lady – what it means to be of the North. If I had the choice, all of my children would stay within these walls for the rest of my days but, my wolf, that is not the way of things.”

“I don’t like the way of things,” Lyarra spits, and Ned sees his sister, petulant and rebellious, and he knows this is the only way to keep her safe.

_The she-bears are made of duty, and sensibility. They will teach her duty, and restraint, and they may cure her of what her mother was not._

“I have heard that before,” Ned whispers, and presses a kiss to his daughter’s head, “but we do not always like the way of things.”

* * *

The she-bears are not warm, or welcoming; they are strength and honesty and Lyarra finds herself blooming amongst these warriors of women.

Dacey takes to training her, and she constantly tells her that the rains will cease, the snows will melt, and the sun will darken before Lyarra ever becomes good.

“You poke at me like a child,” Dacey says one afternoon, laughing. “Think of cyvasse, or a game you would play – you need to be three steps ahead, not three steps behind. This is a game, after all.”

“A game?” Lyarra pants. “I could die!”

“Then it is a game,” Dacey laughs, “for what game does not end in death?”  

Alysane is swelling with child, but that doesn’t stop her from teaching Lyarra how to hunt. She takes her to the woods one day, as Lyarra’s Lord Father once had, and shows her how to make traps.

“Father let me come, but would never allow me to dismount my house,” Lyarra says as they follow the tracks. “He said it was too dangerous for a girl.”

“Bullocks,” Alysane says, pulling the bow back and narrowing her eyes. “Having a cock does not make you stronger – if anything, it makes them easier to kill.”

“Have you killed someone before?” Lyarra asks as Alysane releases, and punctures a rabbit.

Alysane grins, and points to her swollen belly. “I will tell my child that it was fathered by a bear, but truthfully her father lies in the ground.”

Lyra is the one that teaches her the ways of women, for she is the first to discover Lyarra with bloody sheets and an ashen face.

“Gods, girl, it is only blood,” She says, “and you best get used to it.”

But it is Lady Mormont who teaches her about what it means to be a Lady. Not as Lady Stark had tried, where dresses and stitching were concerned, but where the running of a household operated. They say that Lady Mormont was never supposed to be the Lady of Bear Island, for it was her nephew who was to inherit, but Lyarra cannot imagine Bear Island being run by a man.

For fearsome as the bears may be, they were nothing compared to their Lady. When Lyarra attends her, she often finds herself astounded by how the she-bear spoke to her men.

 _She commands them like a man, and yet she is more fearsome than any Lord I have ever met,_ Lyarra thinks one afternoon, after she pours Lady Mormont her ale. She was, after all, only a cupbearer.

It is an afternoon when Lady Mormont tells her to sit before her, and appraises her with dark eyes.

“You have your fathers look,” Lady Mormont says, warmth in her eyes.

“Yes, my Lady,” Lyarra says, pride seeping through her. For although her blood was tainted by the shame of her birth, Lyarra would always be proud of having her father’s look. “He says I am of the North.”

“You are,” Lady Mormont says with a nod, before she is quiet. “I knew another girl that looked like you, once…” Lady Mormont pulls her gaze from Lyarra and her expression becomes pained, “…but I do not think you will meet her end.”

“Why, my Lady?”

Lady Mormont grins. “Because you have far too much of your Lord Fathers sensibility, I think, and a bloody lot of sombreness too, though I don’t know who you’ve inherited that from.”

Lyarra grins at the comparison, before she thinks back to Lady Mormonts words. Lyarra knows it pains Lady Mormont, but she asks anyways. “Who do I remind you of, my Lady?”

“A wild north girl,” Lady Mormont answers, a shadow coming over her face, “who would have rather become a wildling than a wife.”

Lyarra thinks on Lady Mormont’s words, and wonders if they are meant in disapproval. “What is so wrong with not wanting to be a wife, my Lady?”

“Nothing,” Lady Mormont says, lifting her cup to her lips before she leant forward. “Do you know what my mother used to say to me? She would hold me when I would weep, after my father had threatened to send me off to a Glover to marry, and she would say don’t cry, little Mae, for we women are made to be wives. Do you know what I told her?”

Lyarra shakes her head.

“I am no man’s wife,” Lady Mormont grins, “and I will have no husband but Bear Island.”

“And what did she say?” Lyarra asks.

Lady Mormont leans into her chair, and grins. “She gave me a good bullocking, and told me, quite firmly, that duty is the death of want and my wants mean nothing to us women.”

“It is unfair,” Lyarra proclaims, thinking of the injustice. “Why do they treat us like we are less than them?”

“Because, child,” Lady Mormont says, “if they told the truth, we women would rule every corner of this world.”

Lyarra laughs, and wishes it could be so. She is quiet for a moment, before she asks the question again.

“The girl I remind you of…” Lyarra braves, “Who was it?”

Lady Mormont smiles sadly, and says, “Your dear departed Aunt.”  

Lyarra decides then that if she is to be like anyone, she would much rather it be Lady Mormont.  

Outside of the Lady of Bear Island, Lyarra spends most of her time with Jorelle, who is the same age as her. Most nights, Lyarra finds herself sharing a bed with Jorelle and speaking until the sun peaks over the mountains.

It is late, when Jorelle asks her, “What is it like to be a bastard?”

Lyarra is not offended, as she might have been in Winterfell – for it has been a long time since she has been taunted for her blood. Here on Bear Island, no one seems to judge her for her father’s dishonour.

“At home, it’s hard,” Lyarra admits, pulling the furs tighter around them as she looks to Jorelle, “for people whisper and laugh about my mother. My father has never spoken of her, but my father’s ward spoke of Ashara Dayne. She had purple eyes, like mine.”

Jorelle snorts, rather unsympathetic. “Gods, your father couldn’t have chosen a worse woman to share a secret with. Your mother was either a Targaryen, or a Dayne, or maybe someone from across the Narrow Sea.”

Lyarra sighs, looking to Jorelle with a smile, “Seeing as I burn, I suppose Ashara has to be my mother.”

Jorelle is quiet for a long while, and Lyarra thinks her asleep until she says, “I’m a bastard.”

Lyarra’s head snaps to Jorelle, and she tries to see her through the darkness of the room. “What?”

“Mother never likes to speak of it, but all of us, we’re Mormonts,” Jorelle murmurs. “We do not carry our fathers name because we cannot.”  

Lyarra clears her throat. “Does it bother you?”

“No,” Jorelle answers honestly. “I suppose maybe it once did, but my mother would always say that we were fathered by a bear, so what does it matter if she was married to him? There is no honour in marriage anyway – only coin, lands and a cold bed. And why would I want a cold bed?”

Lyarra laughs at her friend’s words, and drifts to sleep, excited for the day ahead.  

When Lyarra was sent away, she thought it would be a time of pain. But every day Lyarra wakes to an Island run by women who wear armour rather than gowns, and she finds herself wondering why she would ever wish to leave.

But when the raven comes, two years since she had last seen Winterfell, and her father’s words are read by Lady Mormont, Lyarra knows that her time at Bear Island is over.

_It is time re-join the wolves._

* * *

She rides through the gates of Winterfell a day early.

When she sees the grey walled castle, she kicks her mount into a gallop and then she is flying.

Her father is the first face she sees, and Lyarra can barely contain herself.

His arms are just as warm as they have always been, but two years is an awfully long time and she has missed him so.

“Papa,” She whispers, for only him to hear, and she thinks he holds her tighter then.

“Lyarra,” Ned whispers, wonder in his voice as he pulls away and holds her face in his hands. His grey eyes appraise her, and Lyarra feels like a child again, when she is not. She has become a woman grown in his absence, and she wonders what he sees when he looks at her. “You’ve grown.”

Lyarra smiles. “That tends to happen, Father.”

“Don’t give me cheek, not yet.” Ned laughs, shaking his head as he looks over his daughter.

_She was a babe in my arms just moments ago and now she is a woman._

Ned thinks of that Tower in Dorne, and how the featherbed had been rancid with blood, and he wonders if Lyanna knows the babe she bid him protect is as beautiful as the winter sun.   

“LYA!” A blur of black and grey slams into Lyarra, and suddenly, she is in the dirt.

“Arya!” Lady Stark snaps, but neither sister hears her.

They are too busy laughing.

Arya had written to her so often that Lyarra had a never ending companion in the ravens from Winterfell. Robb wrote as well, as did Sansa, but Arya wrote every week, of how she hated her lessons and how Theon was teaching her archery. Of all her siblings, Arya had claimed Lyarra as her own.

“Did you bring it?” Arya asks, too excited to contain it. “Did you?”

“Leave your sister be, Arya,” Ned says, lifting Arya from the dirt.

Lyarra grins up at Arya, and nods, ignoring her father’s words. “Yes, I did.”

A grin splits Arya’s face, and Lyarra finds herself chuckling at her sister’s excitement. Lyarra goes to push herself up, but a hand is extended, and she finds herself looking up.

A stranger with hair of red and a broad smile stares down at her, and for a moment, just a moment, Lyarra wonders if Lady Starks brother has come to Winterfell. But then she sees the scar near his eye, and her father’s smile, and she realises that this stranger in Stark colours is Robb.

Lyarra has not seen him in nearly three years, and while Robb did write, he was also not the most dedicated correspondent. _He is the future Lord of Winterfell,_ Lyarra recalls thinking when the raven only carried Arya’s letter, _and he has no time to write a bastard._

But now, he stands before her, not the child she left behind but a man grown.

_He looks so different._

“Robb,” Lyarra breathes, feeling heat rise to her cheeks as she accepts his hand.

“Lya.” Robb grins, and pulls her to his chest.

His embrace is as warm as her fathers, and Lyarra feels Robbs heart hammering through his jerkin.

 _We’re strangers now,_ she thinks as she inhales the scent of the Godswood on his skin, _I am just the bastard, and he the Lord._

Lyarra pulls back, smiling as she sees his beard. “I suppose you’ve grown then.”

“I could say the same,” Robb says, raising his eyes as he laughs.

Lyarra rolls her eyes, and thinks _he is not that different_ before Sansa claims her into her embrace.

Lyarra can barely believe how big they have all gotten, and she finds herself growing morose when she sees little Rickon, who had been but a babe of one year when she left. He does not remember her, of course, and hides behind his mother’s skirts when she steps before him. Lyarra kneels down, grinning at her youngest brother as she ignores the way Lady Stark stares at her.

“Rickon,” Lyarra says, catching his clenched fist in her hand as she laughs, “I am your sister, Lyarra.”

“I know,” He says, strong and determined. “But I do not remember you.”

“No,” Lyarra agrees, “you wouldn’t. You were but a babe when I last saw you, but now you’re a little Lord.”

“Robb says I’m a big boy now,” Rickon says, puffing out his chest as he steps away from his mother’s skirts. “Are you to stay forever, now?”

Lyarra wishes she could say yes, but she knows it would be but a lie.

“I am here for as long as our Lord Father commands,” Lyarra says, before she stands and faces the woman she had truly not wished to see.

Lyarra curtsies, and she is glad, now, that she had taken the time to practice when she was still with the Mormonts. They had laughed, and japed at her when they found Lyarra practicing, but when she had explained that it was for Lady Stark, they grew quiet. For all the Mormonts laughed, they knew what Lady Stark was to the bastard of Winterfell and none could laugh at that without being cruel.

“My Lady Stark,” Lyarra says, as cold as the winter winds. She has thought often about the woman with hair of flame and cold eyes, and she had realised, when she had been surrounded by those that cared not for her bastard name, that Lady Stark's love was not worth the trouble. _For who would want to be loved by a woman who could not offer kindness to a child?_

“Lyarra Snow,” Lady Stark acknowledges. “I hope you travelled well.”

“Well enough, my lady,” Lyarra says, turning to her father, who was watching her with those grey eyes. She opens her mouth to ask to be excused, when she feels something nudging at her feet.

Lyarra looks down, her eyes widening as she spots a white pup at her feet. “What is this?”

“We found direwolf pups,” Robb says, and suddenly Lyarra notices the other dogs. “That one’s the runt, so we decided it’s yours.”

Lyarra leans down and grabs the pup into her arms. It licks at her face, and she sees the red irises of its eyes. She wonders how a direwolf survived this South of the wall, but her father’s voice whispers _winter is coming_ in her mind and she explains it away.

“Father, I suppose my room has not changed?”

Ned could tell she was teasing, so he laughs and shakes his head at his eldest daughter. “Go on, and change. We have arranged a big feast for you.”

 _A feast for a bastard,_ Lyarra thinks, the pup licking at her face, _Winterfell certainly has changed._

Arya finds her in her chambers later, and she almost bursts from her excitement as Lyarra and a lady’s maid unpack her things. Lyarra sends the maid away before she turns to Arya – a package in hand, and a grin on her lips.  

Lyarra unwraps the ribbon that tied the brown paper, and offers it to Arya. “Go on then, open it.”

Arya tears into it like a rapid wolf, before she lets out a breath of awe filled air. The bear tooth is mammoth in her sister’s small hands, and Lyarra can barely contain her laughter as her younger sister flips the tooth in her hands over and over again.

“Did you really kill it?”

Lyarra nods. “Yes – it was a joint effort, though, from me and Alysane.”

“What did it feel like?” Arya asks, bouncing on the bed as she looks down the at the tooth. “When you killed it?”

“It was very frightening,” Lyarra admits, joining her sister on the bed. “When it was storming towards us, gods, I thought I was going to die.”

“And then you shot it?”

Lyarra pulls the tooth from her sister’s hands, and nods. “Yes. Alysane, and I both, for it took so many arrows to bring the beast down in the end.”

Arya grins, and looks down at the tooth. “I wish I could shoot a bear. All I get to shoot is at the bloody target.”

“You are lucky father lets you shoot at all,” Lyarra points out, before she drops the tooth into Arya’s palm. “So, tell me, what have I missed when I was on the road? I did miss your ugly scrawl-”

Arya hits her hard. “Hey! At least I wrote, unlike Robb or Sansa.”

“I know,” Lyarra says, grinning. “And I love you for it.”

Arya cringes, before she looks up to Lyarra with her grey eyes. “Father recieved a raven.”

“Do tell,” Lyarra says, leaning back on her pillows.

“King Robert rides North,” Arya says, her attention on the tooth. “His Hand died.”

“Lord Arryn?” Lyarra asks, sitting up. “He’s dead?”

Arya nods, uninterested. “Sansa says the whole lot of them are coming too, even the Kingslayer.”

“Lions in Winterfell?” Lyarra echoes, a laugh escaping her. “Gods, this can’t be good.”

Arya doesn’t say anything else.

* * *

When the King sees her, he whispers _Lyanna._

He cups her cheek, and his breath, stinking of wine, washes over her. Lyarra can feel her heart hammering in her chest as she stares into the eyes of the storm, and she wonders if the King is seeing her, or a ghost who had been dead for as long as she had been alive.

Lyarra looks past his eyes, and to everyone else, who stare at them like voyeurs.

Her father is by her side in an instant, introducing her.

“My daughter,” Ned says, and finally the King is broken from his spell. “Lyarra Snow.”

Anger contorts the King's face as he spits, “but she has his eyes,” and turns away from the bastard of Winterfell. Lyarra’s father goes to comfort him, pulling him down into the crypts with tales of Dorne and Ashara Dayne.

Lyarra thinks she will stay in her room, but it is Robb that tells her the King has requested her presence. Not even Lady Stark can refuse the King.

So Lyarra finds her plainest gown, a brown, woollen atrocity, and makes herself as plain as she can. All her efforts go to waste when she enters the hall, for the King's eyes follow her and every eye follows the King.

At the feast, the Queen stares at her like the Stranger stares at his next victim, while Lady Stark watches after her with nervousness. But it is the Kings gaze she avoids the most, unnerved by his lustful leering. Every time she catches him staring, he holds her gaze -muttering his lost loves name as he becomes lost in the wine he consumes.

Robb abandons his place at the high table when he notices the Kings stare, and seats himself beside Lyarra, his hand clenched in anger. Lyarra has not seen him this furious for years – his anger a mask that doesn’t suit him. “He doesn’t deserve to even look at you.”

Lyarra places her hand atop his, and shakes him of his stupidity. “You can’t get angry, not at your King.”

“He is undressingyou with his eyes,” Robb hisses, and Lyarra hushes him.

“You cannot make a scene, Robb,” Lyarra rationalises, taking a sip of her wine. “It is his right to look, for he is King and I am a bastard.”

Robb grits his teeth, opening his mouth to say something before Sansa screeches and Arya howls with laughter.

“Arya!” Sansa yells, as Septa Mordane begins to clean her cheek.

Robb goes to stand, but Lyarra puts her hand on his and stops him, whispering, “I’ll go.”  

Lyarra decides to stay in Arya’s bedchamber that night, for she saw how the Kings eyes followed her when she had left the hall. When Arya asks why Lyarra is in her bed, Lya simply says, “Can I not spend the night with my sister?”

Arya regards her with those cool grey eyes, and she shakes her head. “You’re lying.”

“Yes.”

* * *

Eddard Stark is made Hand of the King, Sansa is to be a Baratheon Queen, and Bran falls.

Lyarra is sitting atop the tree in the Godswood, her raven hair a darkness against the white weirwood bark as she sings, “ _I loved a maid as fair as summer with sunlight in her hair.”_

“ _I loved a maid as red as autumn with sunset in her hair,”_ She sings, thinking of how Bran fell from that tower, again and again.

As she opens her mouth to sing, another voice penetrates her ears, “ _I loved a maid as white as winter with moonglow in her hair.”_

Lyarra’s head snaps up, and there he stands, red bearded and smiling. Her heart thuds hopelessly in her chest at the sight of him, a stranger in her brother’s skin. “You always did like that song.”

“Robb,” Lyarra says, her voice growing sad. “How is Bran?”

“Still not awake,” Robb says, pained as he leans against the tree. “Maester Luwin fears he may die.”

Lyarra looks to Robb, and sees his grief. She jumps from the tree easily, and crosses the Godswood to take him in her arms. As he holds her, Lyarra wonders why the world cannot be as sweet as a song, for in his arms she would sing a thousand hymns if it would bring a smile to his lips. “No, but he’s a Stark, and Starks are hard to kill.”

“I hate it,” Robb says, his beard brushing against her cheek as he tightens his hold on her. He sighs, and his hand comes to brush her braid. She pulls back to look at him, and wonders what exists in those blue eyes of his. _Sometimes, when he looks at me, I think he is looking through me,_ she thinks. _He has been a stranger for so long that I don't even know him anymore._  “No good comes when a Stark goes South.”

“Father is the King's closest friend – no harm shall come to him.”

Robb’s Tully eyes are dangerously cold when he says, “It makes me feel wrong, Lya. It’s like the winds are blowing cold, and the wolves know they’re going into a lion’s den.”

Lyarra is quiet, for she cannot tell Robb that she feels the same. _The storm and his fury scares me._

“It will all be alright,” Lyarra says, biting her lip, “it has to be.”

How wrong she was.

It is her father, who tells her.

“You are to come South,” Her father tells her.

“With the court?” Lyarra asks, panicked.

Her father shakes his head. “The King has decreed that you shall go to Storm's End.”

“ _Why_?” Lyarra hissed, her eyes wide and her face flushed.

“You are to marry,” He says, choked.

The words are a death sentence.  

“Marry?” Lyarra asks, wondering if he was being cruel. “You want _me_ to marry? _Who_?”

Lyarra thinks of Storms End, and what she knows of it. She knows there is a Lord, and he is the Kings youngest brother. _But a bastard cannot marry a Lord of Storm's End,_ she thinks, _not without legitimization._

And then bitter hope sparks, like she is a child again, the world brighter when she thinks she may bear the name Stark.

 _Lyarra Stark,_ a voice whispers, _the Lady of Storm's End._

“The King's bastard son,” Her father says, and her hope, whatever hope she may have had, died.

She cannot stop the tears, not then. Lyarra hates them as much as she hates the King, and she wonders why he has to be so cruel. _Is it because I look like a ghost he loves,_ she wonders, so distraught she wishes that she did not have the look of her father. She wishes, gods she wishes, that she could look like her mother instead. “So I am to go from a Snow to a Storm? A girl with two bastard names?”

“Lyarra,” Ned begins, reaching for her.

But she cannot bear his touch, she cannot bear his pity.

“No!” She screeches, standing up and letting her fury run free. “No, you do not get to pity me! It is a good match, for a bastard, is it not? Most bastards do not even marry,” She spits, heaving a sob. “That’s what Lady Catelyn says, anyway. She must be happy, I presume, to know she is finally rid of me.”

“Lyarra…”  

She cannot bear to hear his defence of her, so she does not. “How can you love her, when she never loved me? How can you love her, father, when she hates me? You told me once that I was your greatest joy, and now I am being sold like the bastard I am.”

Her words are her blade, and Eddard Stark looks like he has been run through.

Lyarra can feel her heart pounding in her chest, as she deliberates the unfairness of this world. _I was born a Snow, and now I am to be made a Storm. I was born my fathers shame, and in my mother’s blood, and I bear the scars their actions have inflicted. I feel like I am a doll, being traded and sold and destroyed all while they laugh._

“The King has commanded it, and I have done everything I can to stop it,” Her father says, ashen. “I’m sorry, Lyarra. I never wanted this life for you.”

Lyarra looks to her father, in his grey eyes, and hopes to all the Gods that she resembles her Lady Mother in that moment. “Then maybe you should have left me in Dorne, father. For mayhaps then I would have had a mother, rather than a Ghost and the whispers of the North. Tell me, father, did my mother throw herself from her palace after you took me from her arms? Did she cry for me, when you stole me from her?”

He does not grow angry, nor does he yell.

He simply says, “I’m sorry,” but that is still not enough.

“Poor Ashara Dayne,” Lyarra says, her lips tasting the salt of her tears and her heart screaming for the sight of his. “She threw herself from a cliff, and all the world can say of her is that she was a beauty. Do you suppose there are many cliffs in Storms End, father?”

Eddard Stark grimaces, and Lyarra hopes it is her father that finds her, when she follows in the footsteps of Ashara Dayne.

* * *

“They cannot take you,” Robb says, but they are taking her anyway and Robb’s words do not matter.

“But they are,” Lyarra croaks, her eyes red, and her face cold. _I have cried too many tears, and wished so many things._ “I’m just a girl, and my gowns will become chains soon enough.”

Lyarra wishes the tears would stop, but every time she thinks of what lays ahead, she cries with the fury of a winter storm and she wishes things were not as they were. _I wish I were born a boy, for maybe then I would have a choice._

Robb strides to where she sits, and cups her cheeks, and suddenly she is staring at a summers sky. She feels the tears fall over his hands, and she closes her eyes, trying to be brave. “Do you remember,” Robb begins, “that day in the Godswood, before I left for Karhold?”

Her laughter is choked.

“When you told me that when you returned you would take me beyond the Wall?” Lyarra shakes her head in his hands, before pain twists into her like a dagger. “But then you left, and I was sent away. We will never go beyond the Wall.”

Robb is quiet, before he traps her indigo gaze with his. “I told you that I would never forget you.”

“But I am to be a bastard’s wife,” Lyarra says, shame becoming her skin. “You will be Lord of Winterfell, and I will be the wife of a Storm, and a Southron bastard.”

“You will _never_ be the wife of a Storm,” Robb snarls, but it was a lie.

“I will,” Lyarra whispers, anguished as she flees the room.

But when she finds herself beneath the weirwood, the leaves whisper nothing but, “ _queen, queen, queen.”_

And so she weeps again.

* * *

She cries when she kisses Bran goodbye, but Lady Stark does not care for her tears and orders her to leave.

Lyarra is not cruel, but she cannot help the words that slip from her lips as she stares at the mother that never was. “I pray every night that Bran will wake, Lady Stark. And I will pray for your health, too.”

“Will you?” Lady Stark snarls, her bloodshot eyes crazed.

“Yes,” Lyarra says, her hand at the door before her eyes find Bran, “for it is a horrible life, to be a motherless child.”

* * *

She does not say goodbye to Robb in the end, for she cannot bear to think of him.

Traveling with the King is like traveling with a lecher, and Lyarra cannot stand it. Whenever she is atop her mount, she can feel his eyes boring into her and she wonders why the Gods have crowned a pig.

Lyarra does not speak to her father, nor can she look at him. Every time she does, she is reminded that she has been sold and she cannot hide the pain then.

On the Kingsroad, she is not the only one to feel pain.

When Arya’s wolf attacks the golden Prince, Sansa pays for it in blood. Or so the Queen would have it, if Lyarra had not spoken.

Sansa is screaming, her tears mutilating her face, and Lyarra has her in her arms. “Please, father! _Don’t do this!_ ”

“Father,” Lyarra says, catching her father’s grey eyes. “You cannot do this.”

“Lyarra,” Her father warns, his eyes flashing dangerous. “It is the King's command.”

Lyarra turns to the King -  a man she has all but ignored since she had met him – and steps forward. She thinks of the maidens of the songs she sings, of how so many women captured the hearts of unsuspecting men, and hopes the King sees his lost love in her, as he has done prior.

“Your Grace,” She says, capturing his gaze. “Please, I beg of you to have mercy.”

The King remains silent, his eyes unmoving from hers. Lyarra feels the silence around her, like a poisonous fog, and steps forward again, taking to her knees. “Lady did nothing wrong, your grace. Sansa is your sons betrothed – she does not deserve to be punished for something that her wolf did not do.”

“Lady Stark,” The King says, his cheeks flushing. Lyarra can hear the discomfort from the crowd – the whisper of Snow on their lips – but she does not look away from the Kings eyes. _If he thinks I am Lyanna, it may save Lady._  

“My King, surely-” The Queen begins, but the King cuts her off.

“Quiet,” The King snaps, his eyes narrowing before he raises his hand and beckons her forth. “Lady Lyarra … come.”

“She is no Lady, my King,” The Queen murmurs as Lyarra moves forward. “Only a bastard.”

“I know who she is,” The King snaps, once more, and the Queen takes a step back at the volume of his words. King Robert turns to her, capturing her eyes in his before he sighs. “You would have me spare the beast?”

Lyarra holds the eyes of the King, her thoughts trapped on winter roses and old tourneys. _See Lyanna, my lord, when you look at me._

“I would not punish someone for the crimes of another,” Lyarra says simply, fisting her skirts.

The King holds her gaze, his eyes burning, before he nods and says, “The wolf will be spared.”

* * *

The King seeks her out, on the Kings road.

“You don’t ride side saddle, my lady?”

Lyarra didn’t notice him approach, but there he is – large, and domineering, his broad-shouldered figure consuming her vision. She thinks his eyes hold a rough sea, for there is pain that haunts his gaze. Lyarra tightens her hold on the reins of Thunder, trying her best to seem blasé.  

“No, my King,” Lyarra says, “I ride with my thighs.”

His gaze swims with ghosts, before he kicks his horse into a gallop and he’s gone.

* * *

 

Before she leaves, Lyarra presents Arya with a sword. 

"You mustn't tell father." 

Arya nods readily, her smile wide and beaming. "I won't." 

Lyarra watches her younger sister diligently as she unsheathes the blade. "You must be careful with it. The blade is sharp and-" 

"I won't cut myself," Arya breathes, giving her a toothy grin. "Can you teach me?" 

"I have to leave on the morrow, Arya. I won't have time." Lyarra leans down, cupping her sisters' cheeks. She looks so like her, so  _Stark_. "First lesson," Lyarra says. "Stick them with the pointy end." 

Arya rolls her eyes. "I know  _that_." 

Lyarra chuckles, wrapping her sister in a tight embrace. "I'll miss you, Arya." 

"I'll miss you too." Arya snuggles against her chest. "I'll come visit Storm's End soon." 

Lyarra smiles, and nods at the promise, knowing all too well that the trueborn daughter of House Stark was made for the capital rather than a prison in Storm's End. 

"All the best swords have names, you know." Lyarra sheathes the sword again. "What will it be?" 

Arya contemplates for just a moment, before she grins. "Sansa can keep her sewing needles. I've got a needle of my own." 

* * *

Her father escorts her to Storm's End.

Lord Renly welcomes her with a smile, and galleons of ale, but Lyarra feels no more welcome in the Keep that sits on the edge of the earth, than she does in Lady Starks’ bedchambers.

“Lord Edric is a child,” Lyarra snaps at her father, when they are alone in his solar.

She wants to scream at him once more, but her father seems weary already. The journey has been long, and she knows that he wants to be anywhere but here.  

Ned sighs, nursing his ale. “You are not to marry just yet, Lya.”

“I am four years older than him,” Lyarra says, slightly panicked as she fists at her skirts. “Father, I cannot marry a child.”

“And you won’t,” Ned assures her, taking her face in his and sighing deeply. “You and I know why the King has ordered this betrothal, and it may be broken in time. Give me a few moons, Lya, and I shall try to find you a better match.”

Lyarra shrugs out of his hold, for he is looking at her with that stare of melancholy he wears when he goes down to the crypts. For just a moment, Lyarra wishes men didn’t stare at her; she wishes that her father was not confronted by the ghosts of his past when he stared at her.

“When are you leaving?”

Ned looks out over the crashing waves, which seem angry in their swell. “On the morrow.”

“I don’t want to be left here, Papa.”

Ned wears heartbreak like he wears his leathers; gathering her in his arms, and whispering that it shall all be alright.

“I know why I’m here, Papa,” Lyarra whispers, tasting salt on her lips. “I know why he’s done this.”

“King Robert will not take you,” Ned says sharply, reeling back and capturing her gaze. “He has promised me.”

Lyarra looks down, a sob on her lips. “What if he does, Father? I- I can’t say no to the King.”

“You can,” Ned assures, his hands trembling as he holds his sobbing girl to his chest. “When he comes, you must greet him, but you can spend the nights with Thunder or Ghost. Run from him, Lya; go to the Godswood if you must.”

Lyarra’s eyes meet her father's, and her breath fractures. “I’m scared.”

Ned sees Lyarra then, when she was but four and had fallen from the weirwood. Ned sees her, at ten and two, cradling her hurt arm as she ran into the keep. Ned sees her tears, when he found her in the glass gardens that cold night.

He is full of love for the girl before him, and full of fear too.

“I named you after your grandmother,” Ned begins, and Lyarra cannot help but laugh. “You have the blood of the wolf within you, my sweet. No Storm can frighten a wolf.”

Lyarra wraps her arms around her father, inhaling the scent of pine and leather. “I will miss you, Papa.”

Ned becomes unsettled then, his gut twisting as he feels the storm clouds form above the keep. “Go to Winterfell the moment something happens.”

“Father…”

“I am in a dangerous place,” Ned whispers. “A place where Starks have died before. You shall always be safe in the North, my love. Robb shall always protect you.”

If Lyarra had known of the storm to come, she would have spoken of her love for him.

If she had known, she would have refused to let him go.

But she does, and her father mounts his horse with a small wave, and a smile she will always desperately remember.

* * *

Renly is kind.

He humours her stories and plays cyvasse when she asks, and she would think he wanted her, if his gaze did not linger on the Knight of flowers. Lyarra has heard the whispers, but it is a sennight into her stay at Storms End that she decides she doesn’t care.

“Loras was telling me that you were in the yard this afternoon,” Renly says at dinner one night, his smile kind and his eyes warm.

Her betrothed never joins them for dinner – Lyarra suspects that the King instructed it so.

Lyarra looks up, thinking she is being reprimanded for being in the yard. Her father had always allowed it – he had even sent her to Bear Island to learn from the warriors of that house. But she knows that it is different in the South. Here, ladies are bred for the the birthing bed, while men are given armour on their name days.  

“I was just watching,” Lyarra says quickly, for she knows the Lord of Storm's End may not be as forgiving as her father.

Renly chuckles, placing his hand over hers. “Don’t fret, sweetling, I’m not going to put you over my knee. I thought it might be best if you have armour made, if you wish to train.”

Lyarra gapes, only for Loras to laugh.

“You will catch flies, my lady, if you don’t close your mouth,” Loras quips, to Renly’s joy.

“Armour?” Lyarra asks, confused. “Truly?”

“A sword, as well,” Renly says with a nod. “You are my ward, Lyarra. It would be remiss of me not to.”

So, to mark the first moon of Lyarra’s stay (or, rather, imprisonment) at Storm's End, the Lord and his Knight presented the Snow bastard with a steel sword she names Storm and armour of wolves.

* * *

The first time the King visits, she is quick to run to the Godswood.

Lyarra had heard the horns, blaring and foreign, and she had fled from her rooms as fast as she could manage.

It doesn’t matter, though; the King knows where to find her.

“You look so like her,” King Robert says, “when you are before a weirwood.”

Lyarra whips around, her heart thundering in her chest and her cheeks flushing with panic.

The King chuckles, holding his hands up. “It’s alright, Lady Lyarra. I won’t hurt you.”

He stands before her in all his furs, brilliant and regal. He is as wide as a wheelhouse, but there is a strength in his stance that allows no argument. _This is a warrior,_ it says, _this is a killer._

Lyarra drops quickly to her knees, lowering her head. Heart pounding, mind screaming; _King, King, King._ “I’m sorry, your grace, I didn’t realise you were coming today.”

Fear runs through her blood, cold and fierce. The King is not a merciful man, and she knows why he is here. She has seen the way he looks at her, and she knows what that look means. She has seen it before, when she had snuck out to the brothel at Wintertown. Men would leer and lust, for in the flesh of a beautiful woman they would lose all sense. She had marvelled at it from behind a door, Theon beside her, japing that it could be her next.

“Don’t panic, Lya,” The King says with a laugh, as if he can see the distress on her face. He comes to sit on one of the rocks that surround the tree. “I gave no warning to my poor brother. He’s quite useless, the little Lord.”

Lyarra doesn’t know how to respond, for she quite likes Renly. They play cyvasse when he visits Storm’s End, and drink as much wine as they weighed. Lyarra had been fearful, that first night Lord Renly had laid eyes on her, but his gaze held no melancholy nor lust. _His gaze holds more lust for his guard than it does for me._

“How are you liking Storm’s End?” He asks finally, when silence has stretched between them for too long.

Lyarra looks around the Godswood, her mind awash with the violent seas and the deep wood. It’s so different from home, and yet she has spent every minute here exploring.

“I love it, your grace,” Lyarra answers, honestly. Something burns akin to pride in the Kings gaze, as she continues, “It’s quite different from Winterfell, with the sea, but the Godswood reminds me of the North.”

King Robert looks around the sacred ground, a ghost of a smile dusting his lips. “Aye, I’ve always loved the Godswood. Gave me some quiet, away from the Keep.”

“Do you miss Storm’s End, my lord?”

“Quite,” King Robert admits, his eyes shining with times gone and for a moment, Lyarra wonders if the King is just as lost as she is.

He spends his time playing cyvasse with her, or attempting to keep up with her as they explore the land. Thunder is a decent match for his stead, and Lyarra cannot help the way she laughs, when her stallion outruns each of the King's men.

Renly keeps the Kings gaze away from her, as best he can. When she trains in the yard, Renly distracts him. _The King doesn’t care for girls doing as they wish,_ the Lord of Storm’s End tells her.  

When Lyarra catches him staring at her, she looks away. The King is a jovial man when he is not in his cups, kind even, and so she can ignore the way he looks after her, as if she is something to claim.

“Has your father ever talked of your mother before?” The King asks one night, his wine untouched.

“No, your grace,” Lyarra says simply, her cheeks burning.  

Renly is the one to say her name. “Ashara Dayne, wasn’t it, brother? The one with the Valyrian eyes.”

“Your father went soft for the girl,” Robert cackles, interrupting the strings that played. Renly had insisted on music, much to his brother’s laughter. _You are more a Lady of this Keep than Snow is,_ he said. “As green as a swamp, that boy was, when he first laid eyes on Ashara. Of course, she was always with her brother. To tell you the truth, I’d have thought Brandon was the Stark she was after, but Ned has a way of surprising me.”

If her cheeks were burning before, they were now blistered and flushed. Lyarra has never heard so much said about the woman who birthed her, but she can’t help but be enthralled. Her mother is a taboo topic in Winterfell; here, it seems to be the talk of the table.

“No one expected her to jump out of a window, though,” He continues, his belly shuddering with his laughter as Lyarra sinks further and further into her chair.  

He doesn’t touch her, on that first visit; instead he waits until Renly leaves to catch her in the halls.

“Lya,” He whispers, when he grabs her by the waist.

She had been going to the Godswood, as she always did when the King visited. She didn’t know if he would arrive drunk, but if he did, he would leer and lust. _He shall not take me when I am before my Gods,_ she had reasoned, but it matters not when the man who wears a crooked crown finds her in the halls of his familial home.

“Lya.” His breath stinks of wine, blistering her neck with its heat.  

“Your Grace,” Lyarra says, stumbling over herself to curtsy.

He sighs, as if her clumsiness is an insult. Lyarra has managed to avoid his wandering hands for moons now, but as he leers, she doesn’t know if she shall be so lucky this time. “You need not fret, girl. I’m not going to rape you.”

His words are jarring – enough to make Lyarra gape.

“Don’t think I cannot smell your fear, child,” Robert snaps, before raising his goblet back to his lips.

Gone was the man that played cyvasse with her, or told war tales.

“I’m not scared, your grace,” Lyarra dares, for her father is Ned Stark, and he is braver than the drunk man who won a crown with a hammer.  

“Are you sure?” He asks, before he launches himself at her.

His belly slams into her torso, and his lips are on hers, suffocating her. She goes to shove him off before she realises that this is the _King,_ and she can’t assault the King. Robert Baratheon takes no notice of her discomfort as he explores his mouth; causing nausea to burn in Lyarra’s gut.

 _He isn’t kissing me,_ Lyarra thinks, _he is kissing a ghost._

Lyarra has grown used to people treating her like a ghost. She has the look of a corpse that died in Dorne, and the eyes of a woman her father once loved. _I have been a ghost my whole life,_ she thinks, _I can pretend for just a few more minutes._

But it is when his hands go to her waist, tight and demanding, that she feels herself flail. His tongue is demanding, and his body overwhelms her. Despite the hours spent in the yard, it matters not when the Kings exerts his weight over her. He could take her, then and there, and Lyarra wouldn’t be able to stop it.

“Your Grace!”

Ser Penrose is the one to find them, his voice breaking them apart. It’s enough to still the Kings wandering hands – enough to allow Lyarra the space to break free. And then she flees.

She runs, and runs, and runs, until she finds Ghost in the Godswood.

Lyarra cannot help but retch – leaning over a rock as she vomits up the taste of dornish wine, and mutton.

 _He was kissing a ghost,_ Lyarra assures herself once more, as her fingers dust her lips and a breeze rustles the leaves, _he wasn’t kissing me._

The King never does return to Storm’s End.

* * *

She screams, when she is told her father is dead.  

She screams, when she is told her father was robbed of his head, as he declared himself a traitor.

She screams, when Renly returns with a pretty crown and a new wife.

But when they tell her that her brother now calls himself the King in the North, Lyarra has no more tears.

“You’re leaving?”

Edric Storm is a child.

She had been confused when she had first met him in the courtyard of Storm’s End – a boy of only eleven. She would have to wait years before she could marry the king's’ bastard boy, but Lyarra was no fool. For the years she spent waiting, she was sure the King would make himself known in her life.

Even in the dark, Lyarra can see the two orbs of blue staring at her – the King's eyes.

It makes her sick.

“Yes.”

“Renly won’t be happy.”

“I know.”

“Is this because of your father?”

Lyarra sighs, her hands stilling on the saddle of Thunder. Edric has been hovering around her for the past sennight, watching her tears and waiting for her screams. He was a sweet boy, but a boy nonetheless – timid in his youth. He knows no loss; his life is unblemished from the cruelty of the Stranger.

She wants to yell at him to leave her. She doesn’t want him to look at her, his eyes too keenly reminding her of a man that now rots in the round. A dark part of Lyarra thinks that Cersei Lannister wouldn’t have bothered with a burial: _she most likely ate his heart before throwing his body into the sea._

Lyarra’s stomach churns, her uneasiness taking claim of her. The thought of Kings Landing is enough to wake her fury. The Baratheon’s may have once claimed fury as their own, but fury now belonged to Lyarra Snow. And she would show them that.

“I must return North, Edric,” Lyarra says, tightening her hold on the sword Renly had once gifted her.  _Storm_ she had called it. It seems fitting that her father has Ice and she has Storm. “It is better that way.”

“They say your brother is a king now,” Edric comments, the breeze whistling around them. “But so is Renly.”

Lyarra stills, thinking of a man with blue eyes and hair of red; a brother she once knew.

_A King._

“There’s a King in every corner,” Lyarra says, as she mounts Thunder and beckons ghost forward. Edric stares at her, his face pinched in sadness.

“I don’t want you to go.”

She looks out over Storm’s End, her home for nearly a year.

“I know.”

* * *

Lyarra is half soaked through when she reaches Riverrun.

Thunder has been running for days, and almost collapses when she reaches the familial keep of her stepmother. It is foreboding in the dark; a fortress if Lyarra had ever seen one. Laughter bubbles in Lyarra’s chest at the sight of it, an irony gripping her. _Of course she would have a fortress._

Pushing her hair off her face, Lyarra steers her stead through the countless tents – watching the men gape at the wild wet woman, whose wolf is larger than their Kings. She can feel their questions, and their judgement. _The girl with purple eyes_ , they whisper. _The girl that looks like a Stark._

She has heard their whispers all her life; Lyarra doesn’t shy away from them now.

“Declare yourself!” The Knights ask, when she is finally at the drawbridge. She knows what they see; a girl wearing breaches, and furs, with a sword strapped to her hip.

“I am Lyarra Snow,” She shouts over the rain, “the daughter of Eddard Stark. I’m here to see my brother.”

Lyarra is led into the Keep with glares at her side, and she wonders if the guards have been influenced by Lady Catelyn already. Ghost pads in with her. The knights had attempted to take him from her, but Ghost wasn’t willing to part from her side. If they were braver men, mayhaps they would have attempted to separate them, but for all the guards may have been apprehensive, they were not stupid.

Robb is standing with his mother and Uncles when she sees him for the first time. He is taller, and wears a longer beard now – his eyes haunted by the exhaustion that she is sure his crown brings. They have been separated for much longer in the past, but now, they are strangers – joined only in their grief.

His head snaps up when he hears her heavy footsteps, and suddenly he is rushing forward, wrapping her in his arms and squeezing her to his chest. His embrace is warm, and familiar, but she clings to it – unable to shake her sorrow then.

“Robb,” Lyarra chokes out, her grief overwhelming her.

The last time she saw him, her father was alive and well.

The last time she saw him, she was crying over a betrothal to a bastard.

_Everything is different now._

“I know,” He whispers, his hand cupping the back of her head.

He smells of pine and leather, and a fresh fall of snow. _He’s like father,_ Lyarra thinks, holding him so tight that she can feel his heart pummelling against hers. She wants to dissolve in his embrace; forever held by something that reminds her of home. In his arms, she is in the North. In his arms, she is running through the glass gardens – winter roses in her hair. In his arms, her father is still alive.  

She wants to be a young girl again, running freely in the gardens of Winterfell. She wants to run circles around her sibling’s, and run from her septa.

She doesn’t want to feel the grief that overwhelmed her; pulsating through her veins like a cruel tide. She doesn’t want to see her father dying, over and over and over again in her mind. Her imagination has conjured every way in which her father could have possibly died, but it is the truth that haunts her. _On the steps of the sept,_ Renly had whispered, _Joffrey had no mercy._  

“Lyarra Snow,” The Blackfish murmurs, his voice breaking through their embrace. “We thought you were in Storm’s End.”

Lyarra blinks away her tears, looking to where Lady Stark stands, dressed in black. She wears an expression of disdain, and Lyarra wonders if anything has truly changed. She had wished for that day in Brans room to be the last that she ever saw of her father’s wife, but then her father had lost his head.

 _I am more Stark than any of her children,_ Lyarra thinks, _and she shall be forced to see her loss every time she looks at me._

“My Lady Stark,” Lyarra says, as she moves to curtsy. “I am very sorry for your loss.”

Catelyn Stark’s turns – her skirts flying behind her as she flees. Lyarra watches the woman she was once so scared of, as her skirts of black follow her like snakes at her feet, and feels nothing but anger. _Selfish in her grief, selfish in her life._

A warm hand tugs Lyarra away from the sight of Catelyn Stark.

“Come,” Robb says, his eyes burning dark, “we should talk.”

 


	2. The War of Five Kings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To one thing constant never.  
> Then sigh not so, but let them go,  
> And be you blithe and bonny. 
> 
> \--- William Shakespeare, 'Much Ado About Nothing'

He holds her tightly, in the comfort of his chambers.

The fire burns brightly in the hearth, but even without it, Lyarra thinks she would still be warm. She has already stripped from her soaked clothes and bathed – having been given a small chamber by Lord Edmure. Lyarra doesn’t imagine that Lady Stark is pleased, but she can’t bring herself to care. Her mind is too swamped, filled with thoughts of bloody swords and Lannister kings.

“Sansa and Arya are being held there,” Robb spits, his ale deserted and his back to her.

He’s staring out the window that overlooks the red river; the muscles in his back rippling beneath the sheer material of his tunic.

“I know,” Lyarra says, tracing the patterns of her goblet. “Cersei Lannister won’t give them up. You know she won’t trade them for anything.”

It’s then he tells her about Jamie Lannister.

Her stomach twists and turns at the thought of the golden-haired lion; the one who seemed so like a true knight. _The Kingslayer,_ they whispered, when he had removed his helm and smiled at Winterfell. She remembers her astonishment, her _glee._ There was the Kingslayer in the flesh, the man who had plunged his sword into the mad Kings back and lived to tell the tale.

“Here?” Lyarra gapes, unable to stop herself. “How?”

Her brother doesn’t know battle, and yet he’s claimed a victory over one of the most celebrated knights in the seven kingdoms.  

Robb levels her a dirty look.

“Doubting me, Lya?”

Lyarra barks a laugh, but it twists into something more melancholy. “Always, Robb. I can still beat you, you know.”

He smiles, brightly and young, and for a moment they can pretend they’re back in Winterfell – just ten and two. Lyarra turns away, unable to look at his smile for much longer. While Robb may have the look of his mother’s house, he had her father’s smile.

He is tense when he tells her of House Frey.  

“Arya as well?” Lyarra asks, feeling her gut twist at the thought of her youngest sister subjected to the likes of the Freys.

Lyarra had heard the whispers of House Frey; _there are hundreds of them,_ Sansa had once recited during a lesson with their Septa. The thought of Robb draping a Stark cloak over a Frey girl was enough to make her unsettled. But there was something else burning deep within her; a fury she couldn’t explain.

“Yes,” Robb says, his expression defeated.

He looks ten and two once more – small in his large furs and leathers. Her grief lashes out, a storm raging within her.

“Betrothals can always be broken,” Lyarra offers, coming to cup Robb’s cheeks. “Or people die.”

“If I do not marry one,” Robb murmurs, “then Bran or Rickon will.”

Her heart thuds thinking of her younger brothers. Bran was just a boy, with broken legs and a broken spirit. Rickon was just a babe. “Walder Frey won’t let go of a King, if he has one.”

“No,” Robb says, his hand grazing hers as they fall to her side.

Lyarra is quiet when she says, “This is war, Robb. The Lannister’s won’t let you take the North without a fight.”

A comet lights up the night sky – burning brightly beyond the mountains.

“Aye,” Robb says, “and it’s a fight they shall have.”

* * *

She can hardly recognise him – this King in the North.

He wears a crown, and commands armies, now; a far cry from the brother that she once knew. Lyarra watches him from her place on his small council, beside Maege Mormont who fusses over her constantly. He always sits beside his Lady mother, and Theon – who Lyarra can barely tolerate.

When he raises the idea of getting Renly on side, she volunteers.

“I know him,” Lyarra argues, as Catelyn levels her a glare. “We lived together for moons – he trusts me.”

“He’s a King now, Robb,” Lady Stark says, “and it would be an insult to send a bastard.”

While Catelyn Stark knows little of battle or war, she knows how to weaponize her words. And her favourite target just so happens to be the base born daughter of her late husband.

“Mother,” Robb warns, his voice sharp.

“It was no insult to Lord Baratheon when I was living in his keep,” Lyarra bites back, her eyes flaring. She bit her tongue for sixteen years at Winterfell, bearing her step mothers curses and comments. Lyarra would not do so anymore; not now, not during a war. “I was betrothed to the King's son.”

“The King's _bastard_ son,” Lady Stark sneers. “A shame on his house.”

Lyarra can see Robb fidgeting in his seat; angry.

“A shame on _his_ house?” Lyarra echoes, a breathless laugh escaping her. “I would think the boy that murdered _my_ father is more of a shame to his house than a child who had no choice over his birth.”

Lady Stark stands at the mention of her late husband – the black of her gown glaring at Lyarra. If she was not such a cruel woman, Lyarra would think her beautiful. Lady Stark wore grief like a gown, but Lya would not expect anything else. Her step mother was a Southron beauty; a gentle rose. Just like everything else, Catelyn Tully has made grief beautiful too.

_She may be beautiful, but there is a poison to her petals – a thorn to her flower,_ Lyarra thinks, as steam rises within her chest. Resentment festers in her lungs and just for a moment, Lyarra can see nothing but the hatred she feels for the woman her father loved.

“It is not your place to speak of him.”

“I am his daughter, my lady. While you may wish otherwise, you cannot take that from me.”  

“Enough,” Robb barks, his eyes blazing. He reserves a glare for his mother, and Lyarra thinks it the coldest look she has ever seen Robb level. But it is the anger in his gaze that belongs to her. “We are at war, if you two have forgotten. We must put our past to the side if we wish to have a future.”

Lady Stark doesn’t seem scolded, though. She shoots Lyarra the coldest look she can muster before she opens her mouth once more, “I shall go, Robb. I’ve known Renly since he was a boy.”

Lyarra bites her tongue, and tastes blood in her mouth as the talk continues.

“Never mind Lady Stark,” Dacey Mormont murmurs as they walk to the yard. “She’s lost her wits since Robb was crowned.”

Lyarra snorts, but she cannot hide her fury. “She’s not lost anything, Dacey. She’s always been like that to me.”

“Well,” She says, “you are a bastard.”

Lyarra glares darkly at her friend. “You know, Dacey, that’s not very nice.”

“Don’t fret.” Dacey grins, her heavy steps loud on the stairs. “I am one too.”

Lyarra’s smile is weak, for her thoughts are trapped on the grief that swirls within.  

They fight for hours, but it is Lyarra that lands on her arse most of the time. She has spent moons fighting in Storms End, but she is still no match for a Mormont. _They are bears,_ she recalls, as she battles to escape Dacey’s wrath. But as she fights and struggles, she can feel eyes on her; watching the bastard of Winterfell compete against the heir of Bear Island.

It is the fifth time they spar that Lyarra manages to get Dacey on her back – triumph swelling in her chest.  Dacey seems shocked, before a true smile overcomes her.

“Well done,” Dacey says, as Lyarra helps her up. “You’ve been practicing.”

Lyarra beams at the praise, before she sees Dacey look up and fall to her knee. Lyarra follows her gaze, finding Robb standing above them. His blue eyes sweep over the courtyard; an ice to them that reminds Lyarra of the wall. But his gaze settles on her in the end, trailing from nose to navel.

_Burning,_ Lyarra thinks, as she meets his eyes.

Her chest tightens, for he looks so different from the boy she once knew. _He wears a crown now, Lya,_ a voice whispers, crawling over her skin like a serpent. _And you are nothing but a bastard._

* * *

“You’re sending Theon away?”

Robb is in his bedchamber, his tunic in hand.

“Lya?” He asks, confused as she slams the door.

“No, it’s your Lady mother,” Lya snaps, narrowing her eyes in derision. Her skirt of blue dusts the floor around her ankles, mirroring the rapids of the river below. “You’re sending Theon to Pyke?”

Robb sighs, bringing his hand to his face in exhaustion. “Please, Lya, not from you. I trust Theon with my life.”

“You shouldn’t!” Lyarra says, her tone shrill. “Father trusted King Robert with his life, and look where it left him; without a head.”

Robb’s gaze turns cold.

“Don’t bring father into this,” Robb snaps, turning his back to her. The skin ripples as he throws his tunic on, and if fury wasn’t burning deeply in Lyarra’s gut, she would have recognised the warmth that begins to bloom.  

“How can I not?” Lya asks. “He is dead because he placed his trust in the wrong people.”

“He was _betrayed_ ,” Robb snarls, clenching his fists at his side. “Theon will not do that to me.”

“Theon is a good for nothing cunt,” Lyarra says, moving to stand in front of him. She can see herself in one of the Kings mirrors, all indignant petulance. It reminds her all too well of the girl she was at Winterfell. “I’ve known that for years.”

“Yes, well, you seem to know everything, don’t you, Lya?”

Lyarra narrows her eyes at her King – her hand twitching with the urge to hit him.

“Please, send someone else,” Lyarra murmurs, in an effort to reason with him. “ _Anyone_ else, Robb.”

Fury burns deeply in Robbs gaze. “I will not send anyone else, Lya. I trust Theon – he’s earned it.”

“He’s earned nothing,” Lyarra snaps, her hands coming to grab the King by the tunic. “Don’t be blinded by affection, Robb. He’s not your brother – he is a _ward_ turned pet.”

“Like you are a bastard?”

His words are blade; cutting smoothly into Lyarra’s skin. Her hands drop in surprise, for she has never heard him refer to her by that word. Robb, who has always treated her fairly, ahd spent his lie avoiding that word. For all Theon would hold it over her head, for all Sansa would whisper _half sister,_ Robb was never so cruel.  

Robb must have seen the anguish consume Lyarra’s face, for he steps forward – trying to grab her. “Lya, I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” Lyarra mutters, pushing down the hurt that claws at her skin. She reaches his door, anger taking hold of her as she sneers, “When he betrays you, my lord, do not come to me for pity. You cannot expect that from a bastard, after all.”

* * *

Lyarra’s looking forward to being gone from Riverrun.  

She looks out over the moors, her furs wrapped tightly around her. The Riverland’s are truly beautiful, but their people do not like the girl whose presence pains their Lords daughter. Even though Lady Catelyn had left weeks’ prior, Lyarra cannot escape the whispers and stares as she walks through the keep.

_Bastard,_ they giggle, as if they thought she would quiver at their laughter.

_I have been called bastard longer than they have known the word,_ she thinks, _let them whisper._

The chill in the air burns her nostrils, and Lyarra finds herself looking over the river – watching the rush of the water. Here, at the rivers edge, the war seems so far away. Here, she can escape.  

“Lya.”

Robb’s voice is like the wind; a breeze on her neck. She closes her eyes, a hum escaping her lips as he reaches for her. A small touch to her arm, a small whisper of her name.

Lyarra turns on the spot, her gaze meeting his. Like the river below, Robb’s eyes shine blue – a summers sea burning brightly within two small orbs.

“You’re back,” Lyarra whispers, throwing her arms around his neck and squeezing him to her. She doesn’t want to let go; not when he had spent the night dealing with outlaws. _I’ll come back,_ he had promised, before he rode off with Grey Wind by his side.

Lyarra heaves a sob, relief pouring from her.

“I promised, didn’t I?” Robb whispers, his voice at her ear.

She wipes away her tears hastily, embarrassed. She blames the tears on her moon blood, but she cannot suppress the pure dread that settles in the pits of her stomach. _He may not come back next time._

“Your promises are like sheep dung for all you keep them,” Lyarra sniffles, turning back to the river.

He chuckles; throaty, and tired. “I’m King now, Lya. I have to keep my word.”

Lyarra scoffs, wrapping her furs tighter. The chill has a cruelty to it now – an ice that she hasn’t felt for years. _Winter is coming,_ her father would whisper.

“King,” Lyarra murmurs, before she looks over her shoulder – gazing at him. He is watching the river, his eyes unfocused. _Always thinking,_ she notes, concern biting for her King.

“Dacey says I should let you on the battlefield,” Robb murmurs, cracking a smile as he nudges her shoulder. “Finally managed to hold your own against her?”

“Hush,” Lyarra snaps, shaking her head. His heat is welcome against the bite of the cold, and so she huddles against him. “I’ve been holding my own against you for years, Robb. I don’t know why it’s such a surprise.”

“Because it’s Dacey Mormont,” He whispers. “Even I’d struggle to defeat her.”

“Liar,” Lyarra says, turning to meet his gaze. The Tully eyes of his hold a playfulness she hasn’t seen since she first left Winterfell. “I have seen you battle, my _King_.”

“Don’t call me that,” He retorts, his face pinched in displeasure. “It doesn’t sound right coming out of your mouth.”

Lya snorts. “You’re telling me.”

The wind whistles in the quiet; the rushing river their only companion.

“Theon is not returning my letters,” Robb finally says, anguished.  

Lyarra’s breath clouds over. She can feel the anger in his words; the assumption of what it may mean screaming between them. _You were right,_ hangs in the air, but Lyarra doesn’t want to demand the words; not when Robb looks so crestfallen.

“I’m sorry,” Lyarra says, before she wraps him in her arms.

He is tentative, at first, before he folds into her embrace – holding her tightly as he lets out an exhausted sigh.

“He may still be loyal,” Lyarra murmurs, moving back to cup Robb’s cheeks. “Best to think about what’s ahead, rather than Theon Greyjoy.”

Robb studies her, his eyes red rimmed and tired. “I don’t know how to do this, Lya.”

“With help.” Lyarra nudges him, before looking over to the camp. “How many men did you lose last night?”

“At least fifty.”

“Robb…”

He doesn’t acknowledge her shock. “Fifty for five hundred. We still defeated them.”

“A victory here does not win this war,” Lyarra says. “You’re losing too many men.”

“I don’t want to talk about this here.”

“You can’t avoid it forever, Robb.” Lyarra moves closer to him, catching his chin between her fingers. Anger burns deep in his eyes, deeper than the grief. “I can still fight.”

He shrugs off her grip. “We’ve talked about this.”

“And it’s always the same conversation,” Lyarra snaps. “‘Let me fight, oh chosen King of mine’, ‘No’, ‘Oh, but please, your grace’, ‘No’… Need I go on?”

“You cannot fight on a battlefield,” Robb retorts. “You are-”

“-offering you help,” Lyarra says, stepping in front of him. “I can defeat Dacey Mormont.”

“A training yard is different to a battle, Lya.”

Fury rears inside her. “You think I don’t know that?”

“You’ve never seen real battle,” Robb snarks. “While you may have played at swords and knights your whole life, it’s a little bit different out there. And I …”

“What?” Lyarra snaps. “You what? You think I’m too weak? Or mayhaps it is my lack of a cock that insults you so much?”

Robb rolls his eyes, grabbing her by the arm. “You think me a fool?”

A scoff escapes her. “Don’t ask me stupid questions.”

Robb steps forward, glowering before her. It’s then that she sees the King, rather than the boy she had grown up with. It is he that executes the traitors; he that leads his army into battle. He is looking at her as if he Greywind, and she is prey. And it makes her _burn._

“You are speaking to your King,” Robb says, words laced with poison. “Remember that.”

Lyarra goes still, her chest heaving. She wants to hit him, to scream, to shove him into the river and watch him drown. For all that he wants to remind her of his crown, Lyarra could only hear the unsaid insult. _Remember that I am the trueborn,_ it taunts, _remember who you are._

“How can I forget?” Lyarra spits, shoving him away from her as she stamps back to the safety of Riverrun. “You won’t let me.”

* * *

She is drunk on dornish wine.

It burns through her veins, a humming she cannot simply ignore. Her limbs ache from the day riding through the wood, but she won’t sit still, not when there is a bard and music to be heard. She is passed from man to man, from Glover to Karstark, her skirts like waves at her feet as she laughs.

Lyarra has always loved dancing, but she had never truly had the opportunity to dance at feasts. For all her father was fair, his wife was not. But it doesn’t matter now. Robb is the King, and his mother is deep in the Storm Lands.

Riverrun has put on a feast to celebrate Lord Hosters name day. He is still bedridden, and although he won’t see the elaborate dancing or extravagant food, there is still a celebration for yet another turn around the sun.

Lyarra doesn’t care what the reason to celebrate is; she just wants to forget her quarrel.

“You dance beautifully, my lady,” Lord Galbert says, his smile wide. His eyes are on their feet. Lord Galbert himself is rather clumsy with his feet, despite his talent on the battlefield.

“Not as beautiful as you, Lord Glover,” Lyarra retorts, to the loud laughter of Robb’s bannerman.

She can only imagine what she looks like to the soldiers that watch on. Red cheeked, and out of breath, her chest rises and falls erratically, her gown feeling all too tight. It is a gown of blue velvet, clinging to her like a second skin. It had been a gift from King Robert on her name day.

When she had first received it, wrapped in lace and yards of ribbon, she had been tempted to throw it into the hearth and don her armour instead. But there was a moment of weakness, as the sun caught the embroidery of the winter roses, that she couldn’t bear to ruin it. And so she had dared to keep it, stashing it in her bags until tonight, when a moment of vengefulness led her to select the dress.  

_He likes blue._

Robb sits beside his Uncle, who is deep in his cups. The King usually doesn’t drink, but tonight, he is looking at her through hazy eyes. She can’t find herself to care. Lyarra is still furious with his words, and would rather curse his name than speak it. _He may be a King,_ she thinks, _but he is better suited to be a child._

When she is passed to Ser Donnel Locke, he grins and pulls her close to him.

“My Lady Lyarra,” He murmurs, “don’t you look beautiful tonight.”  

She laughs. She has been lusted after by many men, Kings included, and so Ser Donnel’s compliment does not make her faint in flattery. “Aye, I dressed up just for you.”

“Like you dressed up for the King?” He asks. Panic fills her; _someone has noticed._ “There are whispers, you know.”

“Of what?”

His lips are at her ear when he says, “We all know you fucked King Robert.”

Lyarra jolts back, her eyes wide. Panic is replaced by anger, and she spits out, “I did not.”

He scoffs. “Ask anyone, Lady Lya. They jest and jape about it… how the Kings sister spread her legs for a-”

A smack echoes through the hall, breaking through the drums. Her hand stings. Ser Donnel looks shocked.

“Jest and jape all you want, Donnel,” Lyarra spits, “but I am still the Kings kin. I hold his ear. You’d do best to remember that.”

She flees the celebrations, wanting nothing more to do with the hall and Riverrun itself. Anger stampedes its way through her body, alighting every cell in it’s path as she makes her way outside. _They know nothing_ , she tells herself, _they are just rumours._

But that doesn’t make it easier to hear.

Ghost pads after her, and she can feel his uncertainty. She only realises how far they have walked when she spots the solitary cell, guarded by two soldiers. Lyarra has avoided the cage where Jaime Lannister is kept; not wanting to see the golden locks of the lions that killed her father.

Grief flares within her chest, and she is reminded of the very thing that she has been trying to ignore. Her father, on the steps of the Sept. Her honourable Papa, admitting to treachery. Eddard Stark, betrayed.

For all Lyarra tries to distract herself from her grief, it is never far from her mind. It sits in the corners of her psyche, silent until it strikes. No distractions can remove it from her mind then.

Her anger combusts inside her, and she strides towards the cell. “I have come to see Ser Jaime.”

“Lady Lyarra,” one of the soldiers says. “Does the King know you’re here?”

“Of course,” She lies. “Now let me in.”

Ghost doesn’t leave her side when they enter the cell. She imagines that Ser Jaime has seen enough direwolves in the few moons he has been imprisoned, then he will ever see in his life. Long, or short.  

He is sitting in the corner of the cell, holding his knees to his chest. His hair, once golden and fine, now knotted with mud. He doesn’t look Lannister at all anymore. If anything, he could pass for a simple man from the West.

“Ah,” He murmurs, “I was wondering when you would visit.”

Lyarra doesn’t respond.

“Wolf got your tongue?” He chuckles at his own joke. “Or mayhaps it is our dear departed King Robert that has that.”

“Shut up,” Lyarra spits. “I did not share a bed with the King, not like you and your sister.”  

Ser Jaime snorts. “I won’t be baited, my sweet.”

“I’m not trying to bait you.”

“On the contrary,” Jaime meets her eyes then, “you Starks cannot lie to save a life. You best work on that, if you want to keep playing these games.”

Lyarra steps forward. “I do not play games, Ser. I leave that to your cunt of a sister.”

“You remind me of her.”

Lyarra balks at the thought. “I would rather be compared to a pile of shit than Cersei Lannister.”

“It’s a great compliment,” He says. “She was the most beautiful women in Westeros when she was young. And like you, she had a fire to her.”

“I would think your sister would be insulted to hear that she is no longer the most beautiful woman in Westeros.”

“Probably,” Jaime agrees. “We’re chained to our vanity, us Lannisters. But don’t worry, pet… I’d say my sister knows that she has lost that coveted title.”

“I suppose she’ll try to kill the girl that’s usurped her?”

Ser Jaime meets her gaze; his eyes orbs of jade. “Mayhaps. If you ever find yourself being followed by the Mountain, you shall know who sent him.”

It takes a moment for Ser Jaime’s words to sink in, before she cackles.

“I was not jesting,” Ser Jaime says simply, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. Lyarra cannot help herself then; she folds over in laughter, hysterical. “Most ladies would be happy to hear they are the most beautiful woman in the land.”

“I’m sure they would be.” Lyarra laughs again. “I am flattered, truly, that the great Jaime Lannister would think me worth fucking, but I suppose you bestow that title on every woman you wish to bed.”

Jaime snorts. “I’d rather bed that Mormont tree than you.”

His honesty is surprising.

“And I doubt you’d fall at my cock right now,” He continues, raising his shackled arms, “what, with me being chained and such. Although mayhaps you enjoy that sort of thing.”

Lyarra glares. “I do not enjoy anything.”

“Ah, what a bore,” Ser Jaime says, grinning. “My sister was convinced Robert had fucked you, but you truly do not have the look of one of Robert’s women.”

She arches a brow in curiosity. “You were adamant just a moment ago that I had bedded him.”

“I can change my mind.” Ser Jaime smiles, before he explains, “The King had a taste for easy women, women he needn’t court, nor capture. He liked to hunt his food, not his women. Those, he liked ready and willing. Mayhaps that is why your Aunt ran.”

Lyarra’s head snaps up. “What?”

Jaime chuckles. “You didn’t really think that Lyanna Stark was abducted by Prince Rhaegar?”

The story was well known; it was simple. A dragon Prince stole a Stark girl. Her own father had told her the story, of what had happened when he found his sister in the Tower of Dorne.

“ _Dead_ ,” He said simply, his eyes trapped on his correspondence. She can remember it like it was the day before; clear in her mind. “ _Whatever liberties the Prince had taken, Lyanna had suffered. Now come, tell me about your lessons.”_

“Lyanna Stark was more horse than girl,” Ser Jaime explains. “Wild, and unruly. I met her, at that blasted tourney. She was a pretty little thing… a true Northern wolf. When Rhaegar crowned her the Queen of Love and Beauty, she was shocked, yes, but not angry. I’d wager she was more infatuated than furious.”

“You’re lying.”

“Why lie?” Ser Jaime asks with a shrug. “I saw it, I was there. Rhaegar chased after her like a green boy of ten and two, rather than the Prince of Dragonstone. When they fled to Dorne, Lord Stark and Brandon-”

“I know what happened to them,” Lyarra cuts in. “Everyone knows what happened.”

“Do you know what burning flesh smells like?” Jaime asks. “It smells foul. The worst thing I’ve ever smelt, in fact. It smells like burning pork, but there is something else to it. Something more interesting.”

She opens her mouth to speak, but he cuts her off.

“Funny thing is, that it isn’t actually the burning flesh that smells bad,” Ser Jamie continues. “It’s the hair. Burnt hair clings to your nostrils for days. Penance for a sin against the Gods, I’m sure.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“People act like Lyanna Stark was some sort of forbidden fruit,” Ser Jaime says simply, “like Rhaegar Targaryen was a brute. They were neither of those things. Rhaegar was perhaps a bit romantic in his thinking, as was the Stark girl. But tell me, Lyarra, what story is better to hear at war? That Lyanna Stark was stolen, or that she left, of her own free will?”

“She didn’t, though,” Lya says. “She was abducted, raped and murdered. Everyone knows this.”

“Yes, everyone does know that.” Ser Jaime’s chains chatter together as he folds his arms. “Do you know what I find very funny?”

“I don’t care.”

“Violet eyes for a violent girl.” Ser Jaime grins. “I suppose you think you got them from your mother?”

“My father had grey eyes.”

Something twinkles in Ser Jaime’s gaze. “I suppose he did.”

“I didn’t come here for you to give me a lecture,” Lyarra finally says.

“My apologies,” Ser Jaime murmurs. “I was only trying to be of help.”

“I actually came to ask you about my sisters.”

Jaime leans back against the bars, and blows out a breath. “That’s rather boring.”

Anger returns to her, and she can’t help herself then. “Ghost.”

Ghost’s ears twitch, and he steps forward – baring his teeth. Jaime looks on in trepidation, for not even he can hide his fear in the face of a wolf.

“You Starks really are the same,” Ser Jaime says, his voice trembling as Ghost snaps his jaws. “Using your wolves to intimidate a lowly prisoner.”

“Shut up for just one second,” Lyarra seethes, “and answer my question. Will Cersei kill my sisters?”

He is silent for a moment, before he drops his bravado. “No. They are too valuable to kill.”

Lyarra breathes a sigh of relief, pushing her curls from her face. She touches Ghost, signalling for him to leave the cell. She turns, going to follow him out, when Jaime speaks again.

“Lady Lyarra?” She turns at the sound of her name, meeting Jaime Lannister’s green eyes. The Lion in him is roaring with anger, she is sure. “You look nothing like Ashara Dayne.”

There it is again; that look.

“I look like my father, Ser Jaime,” Lyarra answers simply.

That, he agrees with. “Yes, you certainly do.”

Lyarra storms out of the cell, angrier than when she entered. Muttering to herself about madness, she makes haste to return to Riverrun when someone grabs her.

“What are you doing?”

His breath is at her neck, his arms around her waist. It’s enough to make her heart pound. _Wrong, wrong, wrong,_ the wind screams, as it dances through the camp.

“Paying our prisoner a visit.”

“ _My_ prisoner,” Robb snaps, turning her around in his arms.

She can see his eyes then; dark with something she cannot admit to. _Wrong, wrong, wrong._ His breath smells of wine, and she thinks that is why he is doing this.

“You’re drunk,” Lyarra murmurs, attempting to disentangle herself before someone sees them. _What would they think,_ she wonders, _to see their King looking at his sister like this?_

“So are you.”

She places her hand on his chest. “I’m not King.”

“You act like you are,” He sneers, pulling her closer. “Always arguing, always fighting. It’s infuriating.”

“I’ve always been like that,” Lya says. “We didn’t see each other for years.”

“Aye, I know.”

She can still hear the festivities from here. _They are so close._ “Robb…”

“You think this is easy for me?” Robb hisses, his fingers digging into her ribs. “You think it is easy for me to _feel_ this?”

Lyarra can feel it coming; the very thing she has been avoiding for moons. “Don’t…”

“I want you,” Robb whispers, his hand brushing her cheek. His Tully eyes glance down to her lips; _wrong, wrong, wrong._

“They will call us Lannisters.”

A smile tugs at his lips. “Let them.”

He doesn’t wait for her to protest, or to agree; he simply kisses her. She has denied herself the thought of it every time it has surged into her mind; denied her body it’s natural reactions to his presence. _Wrong,_ she had called it. But this doesn’t feel wrong.

Fingers dig into her waist, and a tongue slips into her mouth. He tastes like the first fall of snow, like winter berries. Her hands find his hair, and she can feel all honour leaving her. _Wrong, wrong, wrong._

Laughter breaks the kiss. Soldiers stroll near by, drunk and happy. They are only metres from their King, and his bastard sister.

Her heart stutters in her chest, a blackness spreading through her.  Robb stares at her, his own chest heaving, his eyes pleading. _Don’t run,_ they say, _don’t leave me._

“This is wrong,” Lyarra finally says, her hands quivering in the darkness. “We are wrong.”

* * *

She doesn’t talk to Robb for weeks.

Even when they begin to trek West, she doesn’t speak to her King. Lyarra is grateful to be done with Riverrun, but she cannot shake the memory of his fingers at her waist, his lips on hers. He tasted of winter, and his arousal pressed into hers. The thought of it makes her warm; the thought of it makes her _sick._

She dreams of Winterfell, and her father. She dreams of Sansa, dressed up like a porcelain doll in the capital. And she dreams of Robb; dreams she will never admit to having. But it is the dreams of the forest that become dominant. Running deep within the wolfswood, hunting for meat. She can almost taste the blood as she grips her kill in her mouth.

That is, before she wakes to screams.

Like a howling wind, it slams at her tent – again and again. Shouts fill the air after it, before the familiar stomping of the guard meets her ears. Ghost is up in an instant, and so is she. Snatching her sword, she runs out into the night in only her shift; her body whipped by the autumn air.

It is chaos.

A sea of men storm the camp with every passing second. Lyarra need only see the red of their sigil to know who they belonged to; _Lannisters._

It takes only a moment, before she starts swinging.

The soldiers are surprised to see her, if their delay is anything to go by. Lyarra assumes it’s the shift, the fact that they can see her bare body beneath the thin cotton, but she doesn’t care – not when they’re killing Northern men. _Too much Northern blood has already been spilt,_ Lyarra thinks, as her blade cuts into the side of a Lannister dog. _There will be no more._

The man lets out a scream, but it becomes lost in the sea of noise. His head snaps to hers, and he begins to charge. Like thunder, her heart thuds against her chest. But there is no time to look at his face, or run.

It’s over before she realises she has done it. Blood, everywhere.

Like lightening, she is struck.

Her stomach rolls, and she panics. The man that was charging at her a second before lays at her feet, his neck ripped open. Her sword drips with blood, but it doesn’t take her long before she realises that she had little to do with his death.

“Ghost,” Lyarra breathes, her chest heaving.

Ghost steps back from the body, his teeth stained by blood as he swallows the last bit of flesh. Red eyes shine at her, and for a moment in madness, Lyarra finds herself.

“Come.”

With five that Ghost takes down, Lyarra takes one.

By the end, she has taken too many to count.

“LYARRA!”

Dacey breaks through the fighting, her armour haphazardly thrown on and her face stained with the blood of her enemies.

Lyarra stumbles in relief, the adrenaline that was once pumping through her veins evaporating. “Dacey?”

“Thank the Gods,” Dacey breathes, gripping her tightly. “We have to get you to safety.”

“Where’s Robb?” Lyarra asks, panic crawling through her as the Mormont heir drags her away. “Dacey, where’s the King?”

“Fighting!” Dacey yells over the shouts. “He needs you safe.”

“I’m fine,” Lyarra shouts, before something whacks her in the face.

Stumbling, Lyarra watches through blurred vision as Dacey is forced to the ground. A ringing tolls in her ears, like the bells in the Sept at Winterfell. Beyond that, she can hear Dacey’s cries.

“Stop, stop!” Dacey screams.

It takes Lyarra a moment before she’s on her feet, blinking through blurred vision. Stumbling, she tightens her hold on her blade. She can make out the outline of a soldier standing over Dacey, kicking her. Dacey continues to scream, although it has turned to muffle grunts as she attempts to escape the man’s grasp.

Lyarra swings, and with five blows, he’s dead. It’s ugly, and gruesome; bloody, and brutal. She decides that killing is not as easy as the knights make it out to be.

When Lyarra kneels beside her, checking over her injuries, Dacey thanks her.  

“Don’t be silly,” Lyarra murmurs, checking her friends scalp for blood. “It would be boring without you around.”

Dacey offers a weak smile, before wincing. “I think he’s broken my ribs.”

“Aye, he probably has,” Lyarra says. “We’ll strap it once the fighting’s done. Until then, we must get out of sight.”

The camp is in ruins when they return at the break of dawn.

More red banners than grey lay discarded in the mud; more Lannisters than Starks. Lyarra can’t help but feel relieved.

“Robb?” Lyarra calls out, Dacey holding on to her for balance.

They have discovered that her ankle is sprained as well as her ribs. The Lannister soldier had not only targeted Dacey’s side, but had kicked her nose in, as well as her legs. She was lucky, though; there was no break.

“Your grace!” Dacey screams, her voice echoing through the valley.

There was nothing.

Just when she starts to panic, Lyarra sees him. The Blackfish.

“Thank the Gods,” He says at the sight of them, calling back to the garrison, “your Grace, she’s here!”

Relief is the sweetness of lemon cakes; of water quenching thirst, and fresh winter snow, when she sees Robb Stark running up the hill. He thunders towards her, and then they collide – relief mixed with anger from their quarrel days before. And as his lips graze her cheek, she remembers that night beneath the stars; where honour lost to want.

“Where were you?” Robb breathes, pulling her closer. His breath tickles her cheek, and she can feel his heart against hers; _thud, thud, thud._

“We sought shelter,” Lya murmurs, tightening her hold on him. She wants to be closer to him, but she knows she cannot. Her emotions are at war within her, and she doubts her lust will win. Want never does truly win in the game of life.

“I thought you dead.”

“Have a little faith, my lord,” Dacey jests, not realising the turmoil that exists between her King and his sister. “Your Lady sister would never allow that to happen.”

Robb takes a step back; his blue eyes boring into hers. There is something that jolts between them, something ugly and unsaid. Something they both know.

“Yes,” Robb murmurs, “she wouldn’t.”

Robb lets her fight after that.

Guarded by Ghost, the battles are bloody. Her enemies don’t stand a chance against her direwolf. She almost feels sorry for them.

The battles are a good distraction for the two of them. Lyarra avoids his presence like she would avoid greyscale, and it seems they are constantly playing a game of hide and seek. She hides, he seeks.

When they dine with the other members of the small council, Robb stares at her. His eyes are an ocean of want, of hidden desires and unsaid sins. He wants her, that much she knew. She just hopes she is the only one to notice.  

As they approach the Crag, they receive news from the North.

“Theon’s taken Winterfell.”

She is bathing at the creek, away from where they had set up camp. Her robe has been discarded by a large oak tree, and she bathes in the security of her night shift.

It’s the first time Robb has found her alone in a sennight. She had hoped he would respect propriety; but even he cannot stay away with this news.

“What?” She breathes, confused. She turns in the water, spotting the King. He stands tall, with a letter clutched in his hand. Despite the cold of the water, Lyarra suddenly finds herself warm. “What do you mean?”

“He’s taken Winterfell,” Robb says, his face twisting in pain. “Lya … he’s taken our home.”

Lyarra shoots out from the water, paying no attention to the fact that she is wet and half naked. He opens his arms, and she is there – hugging him tightly. She wants to pepper him with kisses, and take away his pain. But this is not a moment for want; it belongs solely to pain.

“We will get it back,” Lyarra promises, “we will get it back.”

She isn’t so sure of that.

For all that she makes the promise, she knows that if Theon has taken Winterfell, it would be moons before Robb’s soldiers could breach the fortress. That meant Rickon and Bran would have to wait moons for a rescue.

“The boys!” Lya gasps suddenly, clutching onto Robb for support.

“Theon won’t do anything to them,” Robb says. “He can’t. He wouldn’t.”

Lyarra doesn’t believe that.

“Lya,” Robb breathes, pulling back so he can look at her. His eyes of ice are tormented, and she wants to do nothing but kiss away their pain. For all they had fought, she wishes never to leave Robb’s arms; never to leave _him._ She knows what he wants, what she wants - but shame is a hard cloak to shed _._ “They will be alright. I know it.”

How wrong he is.  

When the battle at the Crag is finally done, and Robb is kept to a bed, they receive the letter. Dead. Both burned and hanged from the walls of Winterfell. Lyarra had thought there were limits to her pain when her father died. She was wrong.

That’s when the storms come.

If the rain is her sorrow, the thunder is her anger. _A storm made for her grief_ , Lyarra thinks, as she watches the sheets of water pommel the earth. It washes away the blood of the battle; the carnage they had created. But it cannot wash away the pain that exists within her, when she loses two brothers.

There is no Godswood at the Crag, so she cannot pray as she would have liked. Instead, she stands close to the edge of the boundary line, Ghost at her side.

Her two brothers, gone.

Burned.

Murdered.

And she must be the one to tell Robb.

He is being tended to when she enters his chambers. Jeyne Westerling is a pretty girl, and Lyarra can see the want in her eyes. Want for a King.

Lyarra hates it.

“Leave us,” Lyarra snaps, narrowing her eyes at the girl who sits by Robb’s side.

“I was just feeding him, my lady,” Lady Jeyne says, standing. Her brown hair is kept in a pretty braid, twisted with daisies from the gardens of the keep. Lyarra wonders if Jeyne Westerling was picking flowers while her men battled for this castle.

Lyarra crosses her arms. “I can do it.”

Jeyne nods, and gathers her skirts as she flees the room. Lyarra closes the door, watching Robb’s eyes follow her every move.

“You didn’t have to be so mean,” Robb grunts, as he props himself up.

Lyarra pours a goblet of wine, trying to breathe through punctured lungs. Crossing the room, she offers it to Robb. “Drink.”

He eyes her suspiciously. “You’ve been crying.”

She looks down, and her heart breaks again.

“We received a letter…” She begins, the horror of it’s revelations spilling from her lips. Robb listens quietly, before his face twists into pain. It’s like watching someone die. A fatal blow, but no sword in sight.  With this news, she knows she has changed his life and she hates that. Gods, she hates that.

His sobs ricochet off the walls, and Lyarra reaches out to him. Grief is a demanding mistress, a woman with no mercy. Lyarra would think grief a man if she ever met him, but the truth is, that the Stranger can only be a woman. Grief is a weapon moulded by a woman; a pain of the heart, rather then the body. Only a woman could bring such devastation by taking away the person they love.

Wrapped in her arms, Robb weeps for their brothers. She does too.

Lyarra thinks it awfully unfair, that they have known so much pain in such little time. First, it was father. Now, it was their brothers. _They were just little boys._

“Theon will die,” Robb choked, his sobs replaced with anger. “I will kill him.”

“Yes,” Lyarra says, smoothing his hair with her hands, “we will.”

Robb’s head snaps up, his eyes dark with grief. It takes only a moment for him to kiss her. It takes only a moment for Lyarra to decide she doesn’t care. Gone is the shame, gone is the dishonour; she loves him, and that’s all that matters.

He is not gentle, but to be gentle would be a lie. They aren’t gentle people. They are of the North, strong and hardy. And she didn’t need sweet words, or fine kisses.

A grunt escapes her when he begins to unlace her breeches. She works on his, her fingers nimble as they graze his hair.

Robb breaks the kiss when she is finally naked, bare for him to see. He takes her in, before his hands come to graze her breasts. His thumb traces her hardened nipple, before his lips replace his fingers. Pleasure shoots through her, warming her belly. She grinds her thighs together, needing some form of friction; some form of release.

“Lya,” He breathes, his fingers dipping down; lower, and lower. They dance on her belly, and she grows frustrated. Grabbing his hand in hers, she forces it to her core. “Gods.”

“Shut up,” She commands, swallowing his words with her mouth.

She finds herself on her back, his fingers tracing the pink of her lips. When he tastes her, she cannot stop the moan that escapes her. He doesn’t stay between her thighs for long, bringing his breeches down fully. His cock springs free, and Lyarra cannot help but blush then.

When he enters her, she bites down on his shoulder in pain.

“I’m sorry,” He murmurs, peppering her with kisses.

“I’m fine,” is all she says in return,

When the pain fades, he can finally begin to move.

Their fucking isn’t gentle; it’s rough, and hard, and fast. It’s like battle, a dance that could prove fatal. She has never felt anything like this; no pleasure, nor pain could compare.

She cries out sharply when Robb raises her hips, thrusting deeper inside her. Panting her name, his tongue shoots out and tastes her skin. Her nails dig into his back, drawing blood. Lyarra knows then that there is no turning back. This moment, this dance, this coupling, was something they couldn’t revoke.

Her hands splay out on the sheets, and she clutches them in frustration as her release builds. Robb grabs her by the hips, hiking her up so she is straddling his lap. Her nose meets his, blue meets indigo, and she smiles, rolling her hips.

It’s his turn to pant her name, and with a cry, she reaches her peak. Limbs rigid, insides clenching _glory._ Robb pushes her off then, and with a roar, he explodes on her stomach.

Her mind is an ocean of fog, euphoria induced. She can’t breathe, let alone think.

Robb collapses to the side of her, taking in heaving breaths. She can hear him say her name, like a prayer. _Lya, Lya, Lya,_ he says, out of breath, out of mind.

When clarity returns, and she no longer sees stars, she can feel the shame creep in. Like a chill, it crawls over her skin; the chains she had been bound by for the past few moons. She doesn’t pay it any attention, for she knows it will soon reign dominant. For now, she doesn’t care about shame or honour; she only wants Robb.

“You’re bleeding,” He says, his hand touching the bloodied sheets.

She nods. “I was a maid.”

Robb stares at the sheets for a moment more, before he turns his gaze to her. His gaze turns affectionate when he leans forward, a smile at his lips as he sings, “ _I loved a maid as fair as summer with sunlight in her hair_.”

Lyarra rolls her eyes, but she cannot help but continue the sonnet, “ _I loved a maid as red as autumn with sunset in her hair_.”

He finishes it, his hand wrapped around a raven curl, “ _I loved a maid as white as winter, with moonglow in her hair_.”

Lyarra smiles sadly, her hand coming to rest on his cheek. “Do you regret it?”

“No,” Robb murmurs, his eyes downcast, “Do you?”

“No.” She shifts to rest on her elbow. “I will in the morning.”

“Leave regret till then,” Robb whispers, wrapping her in his arms. “For now, we mourn.”

“And tomorrow?”

“We fight.”

* * *

News from the Riverland’s draws them out of the West.

A small regiment of Robb’s forces are kept there; to keep the castles they have already captured. Lyarra is happy to go - happy to be away from the Westerlands, and happy to be away from the Westerlings.

The journey is harder than before, and Lyarra takes solace in Robb. No one notices the bastard sister of the King, when she ducks into his tent at night and leaves before dawn.

He is the only glimmer of happiness she can find in these dark times.

Robb’s hand is on her mouth to keep her from screaming as he fucks her against a tree. They had taken their horses a mile away from the camp for a few hours, after spending four days apart. When they’re finally alone, Robb is quick to take her; hard, and fast, like it always is.

When he reaches his peak, she swallows his scream with a kiss. When his finger reaches down to bring on her climax, she does her best to stay upright.

After, they lay in the long grass, spent.

“You have leaves in your hair,” Robb murmurs, pulling a golden leaf from the raven mess atop her head.

Lyarra grumbles, knowing how hard that shall be to get out.

“We can’t do this when we return to Riverrun,” Robb finally says, after silence stretched between them.

Lyarra glances to him from the corner of her eye. He is looking up at the sky, his eyebrows knitted together. He looks young, now; like a Lord of no significance. He doesn’t look like a King, lying here with her. His tunic is long discarded, and his breeches are unlaced – resting on his hips. She can just see the auburn of his hair peeking out of his breeches, like autumn leaves on a pale snow.

“Not with your mother there,” Lyarra agrees. “She’ll watch us like a hawk.”

Robb inhales deeply, his hand finding hers. Fingers intertwined, she raises their hands – looking at how small hers look in his.

“So is that why you took me on this little adventure?” She asks, bringing their hands back down to rest on her bare chest.

Robb smirks. “I need my fill of you.”

“You’re sick.”

“Aye, I am,” He murmurs, tickling her sides. “But I am the King, so I can do whatever I merry wish.”

Lya snorts. “You’ll still have to marry a Frey at the end of all this.”

Robb’s expression darkens. “That’s a bridge we’ll cross when we get to it.”

“Quite literal, there, your grace,” Lya teases, before her hands come to massage the angst out of his features. “Don’t worry. It is not as bad as it seems.”

“No?”

“No,” Lya murmurs, pressing a small kiss to his lips. “For now, you have me.”

“That I do,” He whispers, wrapping her in his arms. “’Tis a story they’ll sing about.”

Lyarra sighs, wishing away Robb’s foolishness. “No, it’s not. No one will sing of us, and if they do, it shall be in shame.”

“Dragons wed siblings for centuries,” Robb says simply. “Why is it different for us?”

“We are not dragons, Robb,” Lyarra says, sitting up. She pushes her long, raven hair over her shoulder, reaching for her tunic. “We are wolves.”

“Aye,” He murmurs, pulling her back down. “But I can be your Aemon, if you wish to be Naerys.”

“If we are playing this game,” Lyarra says, rolling in his arms, “than I would be Aemon, the dragon knight.”

Robb’s face splits into a grin, before he bellows out a laugh. Capturing her lips in a chaste kiss, he grins, “Aye, you shall be Aemon the dragon knight, and I shall be your Naerys.”

“Or mayhaps I shall be your Dunk,” She says, kissing him this time, “and you can be my Egg.”

* * *

The Riverlands are just as she remembers them.  

Cold, and beautiful.

Lyarra feels trapped the moment they pass the river. She wishes to be back on the Kingsroad, where she could wear breeches with freedom and sneak into Robb’s tent with confidence. Here, she is a bastard, plain and simple. A bastard that was favoured by the King, and hated by his Lady Mother.

It matters not to Lady Catelyn, however. They had received news days past that she had freed the Kingslayer. Robb had screamed in anger, and she had been by his side, trying to calm him. But none of her kisses, none of her words, could take away his grief at his own mother’s betrayal.

“I don’t know what to do,” He finally admits, defeated.

She wraps her arms around his bare chest, wishing he would come back to bed. Leaning her head against his, she rests her head on his shoulder. “Nothing, Egg.”

Not even her japes could bring a smile to his face.

“Karstark wants blood,” Robb says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He has lost two sons to this war. Two, Lya. My mother released their killer, and for what?”

“For grief,” Lya says simply. “She is heartbroken, Robb. She has lost two sons, and I suppose she doesn’t want to lose any more children.”

“She committed treason,” Robb says through gritted teeth. “Treason. I should have her head.”

“Fine, then.” Lya moves her hands across his broad shoulders, feeling scar after scar. “Lets execute her. Take her head, and give it to Karstark. I will even swing the sword if you wish, Robb, but this is your mother. You could not be a kinslayer.”

“Lord Karstark will demand it.”

“Aye, he will,” Lya agrees, hooking his chin between her fingers and turning his face to look at her. “So we shall have a trial after this war ends. Give him what he wants now, and deal with it later. We cannot have this sort of turmoil in our ranks while the Lannisters want us dead.”

“So what would you suggest?”

“Send him West,” Lya says simply. “Give him the Westerlands to command, take it from Bolton. That Lord is far too ambitious for his own good. And Lord Karstark will be able to kill as many Lannisters as he so wishes.”

“Lord Bolton won’t like that.”

“Than promise Lord Bolton something else,” Lya says. “He has a bastard, doesn’t he? Legitimise him. Give him what he wants. _Karstark_ has the numbers we need, and Karstark is the one we need to worry about.”

Robb turns away, his shoulders rippling with tension. “I don’t know what to do.”

Lyarra presses a kiss to his shoulder. “Come to bed. We can talk of it in the morning.”

Robb shakes his head. “No, I need to think about this.”

Lyarra unhooks her night shift, and throws it to the floor. “Come to bed, Egg. Let me distract you.”

Robb looks over his shoulder at her bare torso, and shakes his head again. “You can’t just will this away, Lya.”

“Okay, then,” Lya murmurs, shimmying out of her small clothes and finding her core with her fingers. “I shall satisfy myself.”

It doesn’t take him long to join her after that.

When they finally reach Riverrun, Robb is shaking with anger.

“Ghost, come.” Lyarra dismounts Thunder, striding after Robb who seems determined to find his mother first. Lyarra calls his name, urging him to slow down, but she knows he will not. Not when Lord Karstark is at his side, baying for blood.

Lady Stark looks weaker than Lyarra recalls. Dressed in a gown of black, she seems to be losing her beauty with each passing day.  

Lyarra stands on the dais with Robb, a few steps behind. She can imagine the anger from the woman she once shared a Keep with at the sight of a baseborn girl above her. But Lyarra does not pay attention to Lady Starks’ anger – not when her King is incandescent in his.

“Mother.”

Lyarra can hear the anger; can taste the tension.

“Your Grace, I have prayed for your safe return. I heard you were wounded.”

“I took an arrow through the arm while storming the Crag,” Robb says. “It’s healed well, though. I had the best of care.”

Lyarra does not dare look at him then, her eyes focused on her step mother. “The gods are good, then.” Catelyn takes a deep breath, almost as if she is nervous. Lyarra has never seen her this way. “They will have told you what I did. Did they tell you my reasons?”

Robb clenches his jaw. “For the girls.”

“I had five children. Now I have three.”

“Aye, my lady.” Lord Rickard Karstark pushes past the Greatjon, his grief a storm that no one can escape. “And I have one son, who once had three. You have robbed me of my vengeance.”

Catelyn faces him calmly. “Lord Rickard, the Kingslayer’s dying would not have bought life for your children. His living may buy life for mine.”

Lyarra purses her lips, unappeased. Lord Karstark seems unimpressed too. “Jaime Lannister has played you for a fool. You’ve bought a bag of empty words, no more. My Torrhen and my Eddard deserved better of you.”

“Leave off, Karstark,” The Greatjon rumbles, crossing his huge arms against his chest. “It was a mother’s folly. Women are made that way.”

Lyarra shifts in annoyance.

“A mother’s folly?” Lord Karstark rounds on Lord Umber. “I name it treason.”

“Enough.” Robb looks pained, and Lyarra wonders if he will forgive his mother – as she knows that is what he truly wants. To forgive, and forget. _To forgive this would lose Robb Lord Karstark. To forgive this would lose Robb this war._ “If I could wish the Kingslayer back in chains I would. You freed him without my knowledge or consent… but what you did, I know you did for love. For Arya and Sansa, and out of grief for Bran and Rickon. Love’s not always wise, I’ve learned. It can lead us to great folly, but we follow our hearts… wherever they take us. Don’t we, Mother?”

Lyarra wonders if he is truly talking about his mother now.

“If my heart led me into folly, I would gladly make whatever amends I can to Lord Karstark and yourself.”

Lord Rickard’s face is implacable. “Will your amends warm Torrhen and Eddard in the cold graves where the Kingslayer laid them?

“No, they won’t,” Robb finally says, resting his hand on Lord Karstarks shoulder. “Mother, you’ve played me for a fool. You’ve betrayed me, and while I can forgive your actions, for they were out of love, I have to be fair.”

Catelyns head snaps up.

“After the war is done, there shall be a trial,” Robb announces, anger pinching his features. “And you shall have to pay penance for this.”

“Robb,” the Blackfish snaps, his eyes wide.

Robb holds up his hand. “In the meantime, you shall be kept at Riverrun under detention.”

“Robb, please,” Lady Stark pleads, her face twisting in grief.

“Enough!” Robb roars. “You have forced my hand in this, mother. You have forced me to make this decision. And I will not be swayed.”

Robb turns his attention to Lord Karstark, swallowing deeply. “Lord Karstark, I only offer my apologies on behalf of my mothers actions. No penance can pay for the sins of Jaime Lannister, but I shall give you his head if we win this war.”

“That’s no good to me now,” Lord Karstark spits, storming from the hall.  

Robb sighs, looking to his mother. “We must talk,” Robb says. “You, Lya and my uncles, in my chambers. Steward, call an end.”

Utherydes Wayn slams his staff on the floor and shouts the dismissal, and river lords and northerners alike move toward the doors.

Lady Mormont flocks to Lady Catelyns side, and Lya does the same to Robb. “Lord Karstark shall be angry for many moons yet.”

“I should have killed that Lannister cunt when we had the chance,” Robb hisses, before moving to look at her. They begin walking to his chambers, the Tullys right behind them. “Karstark doesn’t think it’s enough. The trial, the imprisonment.”

“Karstark is the least of your worries, Egg,” Lya murmurs, eyeing off the Blackfish and Edmure Tully as they reach his chambers. “We’ll be up against the fish here.”

Robb offers a weak smile, but nothing more.

“Your grace, what is the meaning of this?” Lord Edmure asks, his eyes wild with anger as they enter the chambers. “You cannot call for a trial. It would mean your mothers head…”

“I know what it means, Uncle,” Robb snaps, avoiding the gaze of his mother. “But what would you have me do? Forgive, and forget?”

“Yes,” Lord Edmure says, to which Lyarra scoffs. “Yes, of course I would beseech you to forgive. Nephew, this is not child’s play.”

“You are talking to your King, Lord Edmure,” Lyarra murmurs. “You’d do best to remember that.”

“I don’t need lectures from a northern bastard,” Edmure sneers, only to be set upon by Robb.

He has him by the neck before anyone can do anything; his teeth bared. He reminds her of Greywind in that moment, wild with abandon.

Lord Edmures neck stains red, and a grunt of shock escapes him. “Don’t ever call her a bastard, Uncle. She holds more favour than you.”

“Enough of this,” The Blackfish calls. “This is not how kin behave.”

“Aye,” Lord Edmure chokes. “We are kin. She is nothing to us.”

Robb tightens his hold. “She is much more to me than you are, Uncle. Remember that.”

“Robb,” Lyarra calls, beckoning him over to her. “Your Uncle is right. That is enough.”

Catelyn watches on in amazement as Robb drops his Uncle, who gasps for air, and returns to his sister’s side. Lyarra pats his arm in reassurance, before Robb speaks again. “Mother.”

Catelyn looks insulted by the word. “A trial, Robb? I knew you’d be angry, but to sentence your mother to die?”

“I have not done that,” Robb breathes, exasperated. “I have simply called for a trial. Given some justice to Lord Karstark. You’re lucky he wasn’t asking for your head.”

“So, what shall it be?” Lady Catelyn asks, stoned face. “My hand, then? Or an eye? I fed you at my breast, Robb, raised you from boy to King. You have appeased one Lord by giving him my freedom!”

“You betrayed me!” Robb roars, his anger so vibrant that it bleeds red. “Lord Karstark is right, mother. You are a traitor to my cause.”

“I did it for your sisters.”

“Aye, I know,” Robb hisses, “and I took an arrow for them on the battlefield. While we were fighting, you released the kingslayer – the one bargaining chip we had. Now, we have nothing.”

“Not nothing,” Lyarra murmurs. “We have partial control of the westerlands.”

“Of course,” Robb agrees, almost mockingly. “But we might as well have given that up the moment we were called back here. The soldiers I have left there will be able to fight off Tywins forces for two moons at the most, which means I will have to be back there in a moon to fight for more land. Instead of staying there, instead of keeping the West, I had to return here, to mother you.”

“Then go back there, Robb,” Lady Catelyn says, trying to return peace to their talk. “I am sorry, I am truly sorry for what I did, but I have lost two children. How could I risk the others?”  

“Cat is right, your grace,” The Blackfish says. “She was blinded by grief… it was a mistake.”

“A mistake that has cost us,” Robb rebuts. “A mistake that could cost us this war. What then, mother? What shall happen to us if we lose this war? Sansa and Arya shall be killed, as shall I. Then it will be for nothing.”

Lady Catelyn stands, her skirts weaving through her feet as she crosses the hall. She kneels before him, taking his hands in hers as she says, “But we won’t lose this war, Robb. Not with you leading us.”

“I have won every battle,” Robb hisses, staring down at her, “but somehow I am losing this war. You know what they call me in the South? The King who lost the North. And it shall be your fault.”

Lady Catelyn begins to weep, causing Robb’s expression to soften. “Mother… I did not do this because I want to. It is to keep the peace, until Lord Karstark’s grief fades. He shall be easier after the war ends, if I give him Jaime Lannister. Or mayhaps even Tywin.”

“So the trial is a ruse then?” Lord Edmure asks, astounded. “You shall be called an oath breaker!”

“No,” Lyarra snaps, annoyed at Lord Edmures mere presence. He had never seen a battle, and yet walked around more pompous than anyone she had ever met. “Robb is a man of his word, and if he says there will be a trial, there shall. But … we cannot predict the future. This is simply a way to appease Lord Karstark for the moment.”

“So it was your idea then?” Lady Stark snarls, her ugliness showing. Lyarra had almost forgotten what it was like; to witness Lady Catelyn in all her cruelty. “Robb, was it her idea?”

“Does it matter?” Robb asks, exhausted.

“It matters!” Lady Stark exclaims, her voice shrill.

“She suggested it,” Robb admits, glancing to where Lyarra stands. “But I made the decision, mother. I am not ruled by Lyarra.”

“Just like your father then,” Lady Stark cries, her grief ugly and grey. “Swayed by a bastard.”

Robb does not say anything; instead, he hooks his mothers chin between his fingers and pries her gaze away from Lyarra. “I know you are mourning, mother. Please know that I am doing this to maintain the peace. You shall always be safe, but I must keep Lord Karstark happy.”

“Fine,” Lady Stark snaps, standing from her son and shoving him away. “I shall be locked away if anyone dares to need me.”

Lady Stark flees the room, and Lyarra lets out a huge sigh.

“Your grace,” The Blackfish begins, “I know you must keep the peace, but this is your mother.”

“I don’t like doing this, Uncle,” Robb murmurs. “In fact, I detest it. But if we win this war, Lord Karstark will be easier to persuade to put this aside. Right now, I need him loyal. I need him next to me. I need his men.”

The blackfish stares at him harshly, before he nods. “Cat will not forgive this.”

“I know,” Robb says, hanging his head in his hands. “I know. I _know_. But I have to do this, Uncle. I need Karstark. I need his men.”

The blackfish seemed to see the torment in Robb’s face, for he offered him a small smile. “You might be unfair to your kin, but you’re being a fair King. Cat will come round, in time.”

When they both leave, Robb finally lets out a tired sob.

Lyarra is by his side in a second, her hands on his face. “It’s alright, Egg. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, Lya,” Robb says, glad that his chambers were empty. If anyone was to see their King weep so freely, he would not be King much longer. “Mother will hate me. She will never forgive this.”

“She will,” Lyarra murmurs, cupping his cheek. “You are her son. She will always forgive you.”

His head is in his hands, his shoulder shaking with every sob. “Lord Karstark won’t even accept the terms. He’ll leave. He’ll take his men.”

“No, he won’t,” Lyarra murmurs, lifting his head. “He crowned you King. He will not abandon you so early.”

“He crowned me King before his two sons were murdered,” Robb responds, his eyes red rimmed and bloodshot. “How many men have died for me, Lya? When will this end? I can’t keep doing this.”

“You can,” Lyarra whispers, threading her fingers through his hair. “You are a King.”

“A King that lost the North.”  

* * *

“Lord Karstark?”

He looks up as she enters his chambers.

“My Lady,” He murmurs, turning back to his wine. “Have you come to do the Kings bidding?”

“No,” Lyarra says, closing the door behind her. “I came to give you news from Harry.”

Lord Karstark scrambles up, snatching the letter from her hands. He reads it greedily, digesting the contents with a sad desperation. “He’s alive. He’s marching back to Riverrun.”

“Aye,” Lyarra says with a nod, before pointing to the wine. “May I?”

He grunts an answer, and she pours herself a goblet. Sitting down, she makes herself comfortable. “Lord Bolton was set to send him to Duskendale, but Robb ordered him back.”

“So who is involved in the siege now?” Karstark asks.

“No one,” Lyarra murmurs. “Robb thought it a stupid risk, what with Lord Tarly leading the forces. He’s a good commander. He would have defeated Robb’s men.”

“So they’re returning with their tails between their legs?”  

Lyarra laughs. “That’s one way to look at it. I say it’s risk management.”

Karstark re-reads the letter once more, his face pinched in grief. “When shall he be here?”

“A week, at most,” She estimates. “It shall be good to see him. I haven’t seen him since King Robert came to Winterfell.”

“Aye,” Lord Karstark agrees. “The only son I have left now. The others, butchered and strangled.”

Lyarra sighs. “Robb is tearing himself apart to appease you.”

“As he should,” Karstark grunts. “It is his war that has lost me my sons. His mother that has lost me my justice.”

“It is not his war,” Lyarra says. “Given the chance, I don’t think he ever would have gone to war. Given the chance, I think he would do many things differently.”

“Yer’ a lass with a soft heart.”

“Mayhaps.” Lyarra laughs, before her expression softens. “I will not try to convince you to stay here, Lord Karstark, or to continue to fight for the King. But if you stay by Robb’s side, he will reward your loyalty. He will give you the Lannisters; each and every one of them.”

His expression is dark when he says, “I only want one.”

“Aye, I know,” Lyarra says. “This war has taken my father, and my two brothers. I know grief, Lord Karstark. If you wish to leave, fine. Leave. No one shall stop you. But leaving will not bring about justice, my lord. It will only bring chaos.”

“I do not need to be lectured by a girl of six and ten,” He growls, narrowing his eyes.

Lyarra stands, knowing his hostility will only grow. “I do not mean to lecture you, my Lord. I’m only here because I want the Lannisters to die at the hands of the North, and I know you do too.”

He doesn’t respond.

“But Lord Karstark?” He looks up as she hovers in the doorway. “My father counted you as kin. And I know Robb does too. We have very little kin left, us Starks. It would do best to stick together.”

* * *

Lord Hoster dies, and Edmure becomes Lord of Riverrun.

She is barred from the funeral. Lyarra doesn’t care though; not when Harrion Karstark arrives on the same day.

“Harry!”

He looks well, considering he has spent many moons imprisoned. He grins widely, and jumps from his horse – pulling her into a hug.

“Aye, if it isn’t little Lya Snow,” Harry sung, spinning her around. “I haven’t seen you for ‘nigh on a year.”

“Well, if you hadn’t noticed,” Lya teases, “we are fighting a war.”

“Oh, hush,” He admonishes, before planting her feet down on the ground. “Where is everyone?”

“Lord Hoster has died,” Lyarra says simply. “They are at the River.”

“My father?”

“In his chambers,” Lyarra explains, signalling for him to follow her. “He doesn’t leave them. Maybe you can speak some sense into him.”

Harry sighs, his expression ashen. It occurs to her then that Lord Rickard isn’t the only Karstark grieving, and Lyarra can only give a small smile. A knowing smile.

“He shall be happy to see you,” Lyarra says, “and so will the King.”

“Robb…” Harry murmurs, matching her stride. His expression softens at the thought of the King; a boy the Karstarks once fostered. “How is he?”

“Tired… angry…” Lyarra says. “Every time I think there is progress, we hear more bad news. Yesterday, it was Sansa. They’ve married her to the imp.”

Harrion gapes. “No.”

“Yes.” Lyarra can scarcely believe it herself. “And news from Winterfell…”

“I heard about the boys,” is all Harry says.

“Burned and hung,” Lya remembers. “Robb was distraught.”

“And you?”

“As you are, I suppose,” Lyarra murmurs. “Two brothers, gone. Seems like a dream I can’t wake from.”

They walk in silence for a moment, before Lyarra continues. “Winterfell was burned. The raven brought the news last night.”

Harry curses, “Lya, I am sorry.”

“Robb wants to march North,” Lyarra says, “and protect the lands we already have. I don’t know what to make of it.”

They arrive at Lord Rickards chambers, and Lyarra bites her lip. “I shall tell Robb you’re here, and ask for a chamber for you.”

Harry grins, before his eyes move over to her forehead. His finger comes to graze the scars that now litter her face. “New additions?”

“Many battles,” Lya says simply, moving away from his touch. “I’ll leave you two be.”

She waits in Robb’s chambers, going over plan after plan. Each seem pointless. Each seem disastrous.

Robb places a kiss on her neck when he finally returns, and with a sigh, he sits down in the seat beside her.

“How was it?” Lyarra asks. “How is your mother?”

“Fine,” is all he says, taking the scroll from her. His eyes narrow when they take hold of the familiar script. “Sansa a Lannister.”

“In name only.”

Robb scoffs, shaking his head. She can see his eyes growing weary, his worries laid out bare on his face for all to see. While his people may have called him solemn, Lyarra could see his stress. Robb was but a boy of six and ten; and yet he wore a crown as heavy as the iron it was made of.

“Lord Karstark was happy to see Harrion,” Lyarra says, in a bid to distract him. “I think we have Harry on side. He likes you, has liked you from the moment you were fostered at Karhold. He will calm his father.”

“No one will be able to take away Lord Rickards grief.”

“I didn’t say that,” Lyarra rebuts, watching as Robb takes off his fur cloak. “With Rickard locked in his chambers, his men will follow Harrion. It’s how it goes. When father was locked in the dungeons in Kings Landing, they looked to you. We have an ally in Harry.”

“Mayhaps,” Robb murmurs, looking out the window. “Am I really a King, Lya, when I’ve lost my own castle?”

“Robb…” Lyarra moves towards him, touching his back. He shrugs her hand off him, and goes to sit down again – resuming his correspondence. Hurt, Lyarra cradles her hand, as if his rejection burns her. “What would you like to do then, Robb? Go back to Winterfell? Give up on Sansa and Arya?”

“I want them to suffer,” Robb grits, “I want them to suffer as we have.”

“Then make them suffer,” Lyarra murmurs, sitting down beside him and taking his hand. “Take their castles, take their land, and take their kin. Then they shall know what it feels to lose what they love.”

* * *

The decision to take Casterly Rock takes weeks.

The small council goes back and forth on the decision, bickering like children. Lyarra sits beside the King, offering her opinion here and there. But she is still a woman; and she is still a bastard. The Lords of the North don’t want to hear from her, nor do they seem to care for her input.

But for all they would wish her away, not even they could deny that she held the Kings ear.

Lady Maege Mormont is the only member of the small council to treat Lyarra with an ounce of respect. Lyarra suspects it has something to do with past affection, and her own daughters. _Bastards_ , she thinks, _in everything but name._

If Robb notices the apprehension of his small council to the bastard in their midst, he doesn’t say anything. The King in the North has become a solemn fixture at their meetings, offering his frustrations every now and then. He remains largely quiet though; contemplative, and distant.

“You should smile more,” Lyarra says one day, as they walk along the moors. “It would boost morale.”

Robb glowers at her. “I smile.”

“Mayhaps,” Lyarra murmurs, “when we’re alone. In meetings, you are more sour than a winter lemon.”

Robb doesn’t respond to her jape. Instead, he is solemn as he says, “They want Casterly Rock.”

She knows.

“They would have me take Casterly Rock, Storm’s End, and Kings Landing,” Robb continues, his face pinched in exasperation. He is more exhausted than angry, Lyarra notes, but everyone is tired now. “If they had their way, I would take Westeros. I only want the North.”

“And the Riverlands,” Lyarra points out. “Your mother would be in a strop if you gave that up.”

“My mother,” Robb mutters, “is locked away in her childhood chambers. What does it matter what she thinks?”

“It doesn’t.” Lyarra tightens her wrap around her shoulders. “You won’t find me advocating for her.”

“I know that,” Robb says darkly, looking out over the river. “If I take Casterly Rock, I risk my army. If I don’t, I risk the war.”

“You don’t risk the war,” Lyarra argues, but he ignores her.

“My men won’t stay fighting for territory we already have,” Robb states. “They’re tired. I can feel it. Gods, I’m tired... But if we’re going to win this war, if the North is going to be independent, we have to take Casterly Rock.”

“There is no winning this war,” Lyarra finally says. “We either live, or we die.”

“There will be no winning this war in winter,” Robb corrects her. “I want to return North before the first snow falls, and that is soon enough. Too soon to capture Casterly Rock, and control the Westerlands.”

“We already have partial control.” Lyarra moves to stand beside him. “Take Casterly Rock, and you have Tywin's gold. The Lannisters are nothing without their gold. They have no support without their gold. With Tywin's mines, we win this war.”

“You’re wrong,” Robb breathes, looking out over the river. “They have the iron throne.”

* * *

Catelyn Stark regards Lyarra Snow with contempt.

It reminds her of years gone by, when Ned Stark was alive, and peace seemed like it would last. In Lady Starks’ eyes, Lyarra is swimming in a sea of nostalgia. Days spent exploring the crypts, and swimming in the hot pools. Days spent in the winter gardens, arranging winter roses. Days spent with her father.

If one thought proved fatal, it would be the thought of Eddard Stark. Whenever she remembered the fine lines of his face, or his grey eyes of stone, she would be consumed by a different type of pain. No injury could compare to the grief she was currently imprisoned in. It was cruel, really; there were times when she could forget his death entirely. And then there were times when it seems inescapable.

“Why are you here?” Lady Stark finally asks. “Surely I have the right to refuse guests in my own chamber?”

“I have come on behalf of the King,” Lyarra says. “I have a letter, if you’d wish to have it.”

Lady Stark narrows her eyes; a viper ready to devour her. “My son needs no messenger to speak to me.”

“Okay,” Lyarra says, placing the letter down on one of the tables. “Do you have anything you wish for me to tell him?”

“Why would I speak through a bastard?” Lady Stark says, clutching at her black skirts. _Always black,_ Lya notes.

“I don’t know.” Lyarra shrugs. “He will not see you, in any way.”

Lady Stark takes notice then. Her head snaps up, and her shock, carefully disguised, bleeds into her face like a stroke. “He will not come?”

“No,” Lyarra says, watching her step mother falter. “He is still angry with you.”

“Angry,” Lady Stark echoes, as if the word is foreign. “He is marching off to the Westerlands, and yet refuses to see me?”

“For good reason,” Lyarra explains. “If you were my mother, I wouldn’t be so forgiving as to write a letter.”

“But I am not your mother,” Lady Stark snaps, her voice so poisonous it could belong to Cersei Lannister.

“I know that,” Lyarra says darkly. “I have always known that.”

Lady Stark turns away from her then, clutching at her sides as if wounded.

Lyarra cannot help herself; her bitterness bursting from her in twelve words, “You brought more shame onto House Stark than I ever have, Lady Catelyn.”

Lady Stark halts.

“Robb was kind to let you live,” Lyarra hisses. “Your folly could have cost him this war, could have cost him his life.”

“Don’t you dare…”

“We are not in Winterfell anymore, my lady,” Lyarra snaps. “I need not heed to your disgust, or avoid your presence. My father may have indulged your arrogance, but I will not.”

Lady Stark turns, her face a mask of fury. “Do not mention Eddard Stark in this room.”

“I was his daughter,” Lyarra sneers. “I was his own flesh and blood. You were just a wife.”

“A wife that bore him five true-born children.”

“And where are they now?”

As soon as the words leave her mouth, Lyarra regrets them. She has used her bitterness as justification for cruelty; has used the death of her siblings like trading barbs. _Wrong, wrong, wrong._

A cry escapes Lady Stark, and suddenly something is being thrown at Lyarra’s head.

“Get out!” Lady Stark shrieks, as Lyarra opens her mouth to apologise. “Get out of my chambers!”

Lyarra flees, her cheeks red and her eyes down. Ladies maids look at her, wide eyed as she passes, but she cannot meet their eyes. Shame follows her like a shadow as she returns to her own chambers, a small room compared to the extravagance of Lady Stark’s.

_Robb shall have my head if he finds out,_ she thinks, her hands quivering with adrenaline.

When they dine that night, she knows she should tell him.

She knows she should admit to her folly, but her tongue is tied. Robb is in a good mood. Robb does not want to talk about his mother. All of the shame, all of the guilt festers within her, but her cowardice doesn’t let it leave her lips. _Would it be as when we were children,_ she wonders, _would he choose her over me?_

“Are you anxious about leaving?” Robb finally asks, as she hides her grimace with a sip of wine.

“Aye,” She lies, covering her guilt with a smile. “I have only just gotten used to this place.”

Robb looks around his chambers, grimacing. “It is too beautiful of a keep to plan a war.”

She can tell, then, that he is nervous. Nervous for what is to come, nervous for what could happen. Lyarra thanks the Gods that they dined alone; grabbing his hand and pulling it to hers.

“All shall be well,” Lya finally says, tracing constellations in his palm.

“Why does that sound like a lie?”

_Because it is._

“What do you wish for me to say?” Lyarra asks. “That we shall perish in this war? That Tywin Lannister will seek our men out, uproot them and leave us with no army? That even if we were to return to Winterfell, all we’d find is blood and bones?”

Robb stays silent, watching her.

Lyarra continues to trace the lines of his hand. “Or worst of all, we will win this war, and we shall be able to return North.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Robb murmurs, flexing his hand in hers.

Lyarra doesn’t meet his eye. “If we win this war, you shall marry a Frey. She shall be Queen, and she shall be the one to give you babes… and I shall not welcome in Winterfell.”

“You will always be welcome in Winterfell.”

Lyarra smiles sadly. “I don’t think your Lady Wife would like competition. And you would take me to your bed more than you would your wife. People would begin to notice.”

“They haven’t noticed yet.”

Lya laughs. “It is war, Egg. They have better things to do than wonder what their King is doing with his bastard sister.”

Robb scoots closer to her, his hand coming to cup her cheek. “Is loving you so wrong?”

“They would call us lions, if they ever found out,” Lya whispers. “I don’t want that for you.”

“We could never be lions…”

“Dragons, then.” Lya press a kiss to his palm. “When this war is done, we shall be too.”  

* * *

The night before they storm Casterly Rock, Robb takes her in every way he can.

Lyarra knows he is scared. Between kisses, he lingers. Between touches, he sighs. She doesn’t begrudge his fear, but when he kisses her for the last time, she can see his fear breaking through his exterior. A scared child, seeking comfort – not the King she is used to seeing.

He traces a birthmark that sits on her thigh – a small, unmistakable heart. “I think this is my favourite part of you.”

Lyarra giggles, bringing his hand to her core. “I think this is.”

He smiles, before he grows sombre once more.

“Promise me,” He breathes, his fingers digging into her flesh, “that you shall be safe.”

She promises, when she knows she shouldn’t.

In the end, Casterly Rock falls.

The lion pit is theirs, and the Lannisters flee with their tails between her legs. _So this is what justice feels like,_ she thinks, as she stands before Lannisport.

Her first mistake is thinking that victory would be so easy; her second is allowing her guard to be down.

For when the dawn breaks, and the King in the North searches for her, she is no where to be found. And suddenly, doubt seeps into their victory – before panic rears it’s ugly head.

Lyarra Snow is gone, and it becomes quickly obvious who has taken her.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank everyone for all their comments and kudos on the last chapter. This story has certainly got the response I was hoping for. To be honest, I was scared that no one would find the fic interesting - which is why I sat on it for so long. 
> 
> You're getting the update a day early for two reasons: tomorrow, I will be out all afternoon once I clock off from my job and I won't be home until late. That means I have no time for editing. The second is that I want to actually watch GOT when I do eventually get home. 
> 
> As always, I really appreciate your comments and opinions. I really like hearing what you guys have to say - and I can't emphasise how much encouragement I get from reading comments. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter - the next will certainly be interesting! 
> 
> Also, are you guys liking the Robb/Jon situation? I'm curious. 
> 
> Song Recs for this chapter: 
> 
> Say it by Maggie Rogers  
> I love you by Billie Eilish  
> Oh, what a world by Kacey Musgraves  
> Farewell by Alan Menken


	3. Hear Me Roar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Converting all your sounds of woe,  
> Into Hey, nonny nonny.  
> Sing no more ditties, sing no mo. 
> 
> \--- William Shakespeare, 'Much Ado About Nothing'
> 
> Warning: This chapter contains descriptions rape and sexual assault. Read at your own risk.

Lyarra wakes to a cold room.

Limbs aching, head pounding. When she moves, her body screams out in pain. She does too. There are gashes all over her body, weeping like she is. Ribs have been shattered, and so has her hearing. She can hear the bells tolling in her ears; a screech that she suspects won’t go away.

It reminds her of the time she fell from the weirwood, hitting her head on the way down to earth. Her sight had been plagued by shadows and her ears had rung for days, bells that could rival no Sept. Maester Luwin had called it _the soldiers price,_ an ache that would only be cured by time. Never again did Lyarra Snow think she would suffer the soldiers price, but here she was, splayed and aching.

“Gods,” Lyarra murmurs, tasting dried blood on her lips. Her mind is a battlefield, resembling the land surrounding Casterly Rock. She recalls the bodies, and their cloaks. _Red,_ she thinks, _just like their blood._

“Your Gods won’t save you now.”

Tywin Lannister is as intimidating as they say.  

The lion of Casterly Rock leans against a wall, his eyes holding a storm of their own. Like his son and daughter before him, Tywin Lannister wears a mask of impassiveness; impenetrable from the outside. She wonders if this is the last face she shall ever see – a mask of stone mastered by a lion.

_Lannisters always pay their debts._

Lyarra thinks back to the many Lannister soldiers she has killed. She knows that she could wish away the killings as part of war, but for all that her conscience may cling to that fact, Tywin Lannister will not.

She knows, then, that she will die. She just hopes that it shall be quick.

“Your brother,” Tywin begins, adjusting his cuffs, “has taken my keep from me. He’s raided and raped the Westerlands, and I’m sure he’ll have control for quite some time. It’s a feat, if I say so myself.”

Lyarra doesn’t know whether she should speak. Tywin doesn’t let her.

“For all that my men may have been useless to defend Casterly Rock from the King in the North, they were smart in their capture of you. I thought all bastards were useless, but not many men care for their sisters as your brother does.”

Lyarra’s head snaps up.

Tywin smiles to her horror. “You think it is a secret? The King in the North bedding his sister. Quite a scandal for Northerners.”

For all the moons since that night at the Crag, Lyarra had been dreading this moment. Her secret, spoken freely and without shame; as if it were nothing. The same secret that festered within her every day passed. The same secret that seemed to come with it’s own cloak of shame.

This secret of theirs, this shame they held so close, was guarded carefully. She doesn’t understand how Tywin Lannister had come to learn it. After all, they had been careful. At Riverrun, they avoided being alone in the Kings chambers – save for the occasional dinner. But who would begrudge the King a meal with his sister, they had thought? Who would suspect the King of such a southron shame?

Tywin chuckles. “You think the Westerlings did not understand what was happening in their own keep? You think they did not notice that the King and his bastard sister were sharing the same bed?”

A whoosh of air escapes her, as if she’s been struck. _But it was only one night,_ she thinks desperately, _it was only one night._

“And better yet, you think they would not write their liege Lord with such information?” Tywin murmurs, his voice low. “That good, moral King Robb was fucking his bastard sister?”

His words are a blunt blade, digging into her side. Worse than any of her injuries, Lyarra cannot find a shred of solace to soothe the pain of his words. Instead, her conscience voices its agreement with the Lannister Lord with three simple words; _shame, shame, shame._

“I don’t see how a Lannister can be the voice of a moral reason on this matter,” Lyarra says, meeting his gaze. It burns with a fury; an anger that speaks only of her imminent death.

“Careful,” Tywin mutters. “You wouldn’t want to say something you regret, Lyarra Snow.”

“What does it matter?” Lyarra asks, the words coming out hard and rough. They tear at her throat, uneasy as they stumble out of her lips and voice a fear she has been ignoring. “I am to die anyway.”

Tywin does not look at her when he says, “The Stranger is of no use to me.”

“What?”

“You think I would kill Robb Starks favourite?” He asks, circling her. She is too weak to follow him, her neck aching from blows sustained. “I want my keep back. I’d have assumed that was obvious, even for a simpling like you.”

Lyarra hisses out, “I am no pawn.”

“Wrong,” Tywin says, slowly moving towards her. He is tall, and she is shackled to a pole in the centre of the room.

Intimidating is the only word she can use to describe him. Intimidating, and cruel. _They say Tywin Lannister ordered the deaths of the Targaryen babes,_ a voice whispers, _a man who murders babes is no man to grant mercy_.

“We are all pawns, Snow, just as we are all players.  Players who think themselves above the game are liars,” Tywin murmurs. “You will learn that soon.”

And with that, he leaves her; aching, and confused.

* * *

In her dreams, she runs deep within the woods, in search of a kill.

Birds fly above, other animals scramble to escape. She can hear the shifting of autumn leaves, crunching beneath the feet of rabbits and elk alike. The ground, albeit hidden by the surrounding darkness, would be painted orange if the sun was in the sky. Autumn, it seems, was raping every tree of its leaves – and drinking the colour from the world.

A doe crosses her vision, desperate to escape. It doesn’t take her long before she tackles it, her teeth sinking into the fur of its neck. Blood floods into her mouth, metallic and thick and _stifling._

“Ghost!” Someone calls. “Ghost, come here!”

But she is not done eating.

Ravaging into the flesh of the deer, the meat goes down heavy in her gut. She feels fuller than she has in weeks, but even still, there is an emptiness that not even the largest of kills could fill.

A stick cracks in the distance; she feels her body tense. A predator, mayhaps?

But the smell of pine infiltrates her nostrils, a familiar burning filling her.

“Ghost,” A man says, his hair the colour of autumn. She knows him, she misses him, gods how she grieves him. “We must go.”

* * *

Kings Landing is not what she imagines.

The city once commanded by dragons rots away; an infestation on the face of Westeros. _So this is where my father died,_ she thinks, glaring at the steps of the Sept of Baelor. Her father, admitting treachery before thousands, only to have his compliance rewarded with murder. Killed by his own sword.

Her stomach twists at the thought.

Kings Landing doesn’t seem to care for her discomfort. The people stare at her, this stranger with purple eyes and raven hair, and call out. She expects them to call her a bastard; instead, they sing ‘wolf, wolf, wolf’. She tries to ignore them, focusing on the shackles that bind her hands together and the horse she rides. _I am not riding her,_ she thinks with disdain, looking to the rope that led the mare, _I am being dragged._

Tywin Lannister rides ahead, shrouded in the banners of the red lions. It is ironic, Lyarra thinks, that he should be received as a conqueror when he had lost his lands. _I wonder if they’ll call him the Warden that lost the West._

The red keep is the spider she expects. In the air, it sits above the rest of Kings Landing; a throne of keeps. For all its grandeur, nothing can hide its ugliness. It was built to be received as such, an intimidating fortress for dragons to be held. But now lions hold the keep, dressed as stags for all to see.

“Come,” Tywin says, when they arrive in the courtyard. He is at her side, his perfumes burning her nostrils as he tugs on her chains. “We must greet the King.”

“I would rather have my hand removed than greet that cunt,” Lyarra sneers, holding tight to the mane of her mare. She wouldn’t be moved, not if it meant facing Joffrey Lannister – the boy King who had murdered her father.

Tywin stares at her, openly bored. “I have no time for insolence, Snow.”

She opens her mouth to say something, before she feels someone’s hand at her hair – yanking her off the horse. Lyarra lets out a strangled yelp, her nails digging into leather gloves and her screams being quickly covered by a stranger’s hand.

“Come,” Tywin drawls for the final time, “or the King shall call for your blood.”

They stare at her, when she is brought before the court. She can imagine their disgust at what they see; a northern girl covered in the blood of Lannister soldiers. Her hair is knotted, and her own wounds weep with every step she takes. They gawk and turn away in disgust, but Lyarra continues on. She hopes they see her for what she is, a soldier of the North; not some girl in Lannister colours.

They had tried to dress her up, of course. The Lannister maids had spent days trying to wash her, but she had screamed whenever they got within an inch of her. Lyarra had half expected Tywin himself to come into her cell, and rip her out of her destroyed armour. But he never did.

And so, she wore it still – a sennight after the battle was done. A sennight since she had last seen Robb.

The Iron Throne is as ugly as she expects.

Towering, and grotesque, it dwarfs the boy that sits atop it. Draped in finery he did not fight for, Joffrey Lannister smiles at her. It’s a beautiful smile, one that Lyarra is sure has captured many a heart. But there is a poison to his grin, a maliciousness that the Stranger himself did not harbour.

Lyarra looks to the side of the King, spying the Queen in green silks and the boys Uncle (or so they say) standing guard. Lyarra bares her teeth at the sight of the Kingslayer, a man who sought to tear apart the North by his mere presence. _The man who killed the King,_ she thinks, _the man who sought to kill my father._

But it is the girl with fire for hair that Lyarra has eyes for; the girl who shares her blood.

“Sansa,” Lyarra chokes, stepping towards her sister, before she is forced to her knees. Her eyes do not leave her sister, so tall and _so_ beautiful. She has grown since the last time Lyarra saw her, a flower that seeks to rise above all else. It is almost painful; how much Sansa resembles her mother. But her eyes, beautiful and Tully, no longer hold the light they once carried.

Her sister, the babe Lady Catelyn fought so hard to protect, is covered in bruises. Alabaster skin turned purple and blue, like a field of winter roses covered by Northern snow. “Sansa,” Lyarra croaks out again, “Sansa, are you well?”

“Leave Lady Lannister be, bastard,” The King snaps. “My Aunt is not for you to gawk at.”

Lyarra knows she should not speak to the King. She knows what he is capable of. _He killed my father. He killed my father. He killed my father._

And oh, how she despises him.

Sansa doesn’t seem shocked, or upset. She simply stares straight ahead. _What have they done to her,_ Lyarra wonders, offering her sister the smallest of smiles. Her sister, the girl who talked of golden haired knights, and asked her father to employ a bard. Her sister, the girl who would rather be told tales of love than wights. Her sister, a Lannister.

It is clear then what they have done. Alive, but changed. Warped into something else, something she was not.

Lyarra turns away, and glares openly at the King. He is smaller than she had imagined, and she knew, if given the opportunity, that she would be able to open his throat. He would be an easy kill; little struggle, little fight. It made it all the more infuriating that this boy was surrounded by white cloaks, ready to take her head at any moment.

 _How easy it would be,_ she thinks, _to spill blood in this hall._

“You know why you’re here, Snow?” The King asks. “My Hand sees fit to use you as a trading tool.”

Joffrey stands, stepping away from the throne. He grins broadly, and so very Lannister. It is clear that he is not a Baratheon in that moment. The broad King of her memories is nothing like the boy in front of her. A drunk, yes, but she knew his motivations. Joffrey remains a mystery to her. “Or mayhaps he shall give you to me. A gift to his King.”

Lyarra looks away, wanting to retch. She can hear the King walking towards her, his fingers coming to hook beneath her chin – ripping her gaze back to his. Jade eyes meet indigo, and she can see the evil in his gaze.

“Would you like that, Snow?” Joffrey murmurs, his tongue coming to wet his lips. “I’ve never had a wolf before.” Lyarra closes her eyes, seeking to ignore him. He shakes her face, “Look at me when I speak to you. I am your _King_.”

It slips from her lips before she can stop it. “I know no King but the King in the North, whose name is Robb Stark.”

The court erupts in whispers, and Lyarra can see Cersei stand from where she sits. “Traitor!”

Joffrey does not move. His eyes, jade and bright, only darken with the slightest show of annoyance. His nails slowly begin to dig into the flesh of her face, and the anger that quickly takes over him is replaced by a smile. “You think yourself free from consequences? I shall have you cut open in the same way your traitor father was. Don’t _tempt_ me.”

“Do it,” Lyarra spits, her heart pounding against the confines of her chest. “When you kill me, you lose this war. And I shall happily welcome the Stranger, if it means Robb Stark will take your head.”

His slap doesn’t hurt, but the white cloaks that restrain her do. Lyarra had expected it; she had insulted the King, after all. She is happy to die if it means that she would no longer be used as a trading tool.

Joffrey slowly meanders back to his throne, a smile on his lips. “You are just what I expected. A wild whore from the North. Tell me, Lyarra Snow, do you bleed like your father?”

One of the white cloaks grabs her face, and takes out his blade. Fear grips her lungs, paralysing her body as he cuts open her flesh. She lets out a strangled scream, shocked as pain takes hold. It is barely noticeable compared to the other pain that grips her body, her fractured bones and butchered organs already bruised enough.

“They call you the most beautiful woman in Westeros,” Joffrey continues, as the blood pours down her cheek. “A whelp of Ashara Dayne’s beauty. Do you think your King shall like you now, with a face like this?”

The blade slashes her jaw line open.

Lyarra bites down on her tongue this time, holding in the screams. She will not bow down to the Kings sadism. She will not scream as he so wished, nor will she plead for her life. She would rather be put to the block than ever satisfy Joffrey Lannister, and so, she is determined to remain silent.

_I am winter, silent and cold. I am the wall, frozen and tall._

“Robb Stark may hold the West, but we hold his whore,” Joffrey sneers, turning to sit on the throne. “Did you fuck his wolf too? Or did you only let your brother have you?”

A blade cuts off her armour, and it clatters to the floor. Renly’s gift, so easily discarded. Lyarra wants to weep, but she knows she cannot. _Not here, not in front of these people_ . Her tears would be seen as her weakness, and she will not let these Southerners see her cry. _They do not deserve my tears,_ she thinks, _save them for Robb, save them for Ghost, save them for Father._

“Come then, Ser Meryn,” Joffrey sings, raising a goblet of wine to his lips. “I want everyone to see just how beautiful she is.”

Her tunic goes first, and then her breeches. Lyarra cannot hide her modesty with her arms behind her back, and so, she is bare before the court. They will see her scarred flesh, and her bruised skin. They will see parts of her only Robb has seen before, and she can do nothing to stop it.

Her hair falls over her shoulder, covering her breasts from sight.

“Oh, no, no, no!” Joffrey objects, clucking his tongue. “Ser Meryn, pull her hair back. I like her tits the best.”

Her hair is roughly pulled back, and held at the nape of her neck.

Behind the throne, Lyarra meets the eyes of Ser Jaime Lannister. He was knighted before the seven, instructed to protect the innocents. Instead, he looks away. _Coward,_ she wants to scream.

“What do you think of her, Lord Tyrell?” Joffrey asks. “Or mayhaps I should ask you, Ser Loras. Is she pleasant?”

Loras, the man who taught her how to spar, looks at her armour. It lays on the marble floor, discarded and bloodied and ruined. It is ironic that her armour, gifted by Renly Baratheon, suffered a similar fate to the King he became. Discarded and forgotten by everyone except Loras Tyrell. The Knight of Flowers looks like a man tortured of his happiness, and Lyarra wonders if he, too, has been changed by the lions he now serves.

Loras swallows, his eyes trapped on the armour, before he mutters, “She is beautiful, your grace.”

“Quite right, quite right,” Joffrey says, before looking to his Grandfather. Tywin looks bored by the whole affair, his eyes averted and his hands folded at his waist. “And you, Grandfather? What do you think of her?”

Tywin Lannister doesn’t bother to look at her. “She’s adequate.”

“Brilliant,” Joffrey says simply, clapping his hands together. “She is my gift to you, Grandfather. Bed her, and break her. Let’s see how she handles a true lion.”

Lyarra falls to her knees as the white cloaks let her go, retching in the process. The thought of bedding Tywin Lannister is enough to bring bile to her mouth, and so she spews out the little food that is left in her stomach. She can hear the murmurs of disgust among the crowd of courtiers, and Lyarra wants to scream at them all. _A war is being fought beyond these walls and they recoil at vomit? These people would watch the world burn and only weep for their destroyed keeps._

Lyarra stands on trembling legs, her hands coming to feel her face. It is shredded. _These people would slaughter babes in their bed, if it meant keeping that throne._ But the thought is met with a curling sickness and the names Rhaenys and Aegon come to mind. _Of course,_ she thinks, _they already have._

Tywin comes to her side, his hand at her elbow. “Come.”

With just one look, she knows it is done.

 _Sold,_ she thinks, as she is dragged away from the hall, _to a lion._

* * *

Lyarra will not let the Maester fix her face.

“Let them see what they have done,” She spits, when Tywin Lannister insists. “I am not afraid to be scarred.”

It is in Kings Landing that Lyarra realises the true cost of beauty. The men leer and lust as if she is an object to be stolen; a conquest to be had. These men, who wear badges of honour and boast of battles won by soldiers they pay, would be easy to kill. Most had never seen real battle, instead forcing the young men of their lands into their colours and watching without grief as they returned home in boxes.

She wants to run them all through with her blade, and show them how real men fight. But she can do none of that; not here, in the Capital, where Queens had been locked in towers and babes murdered in their beds.

She hates it here; but she suspects that most women do. After all, women do not fare well in the city of Kings – or so Tywin Lannister says.

He stands behind her when he tells her the news. “Your brother is being difficult.”

“Good,” Lyarra says, watching as the waves lap at the keep beneath them. The tide looks tempting; what she wouldn’t give to jump. _My Lady mother jumped into the ocean,_ she thinks, _I can too._

Tywin breathes deeply, his sigh expelling onto her neck as he says, “No matter. He shall bend the knee soon.”

He leaves her then, with the promise of death and destruction. It’s how it always is; but never has he taken her as the King had promised.

Sometimes, when Lord Lannister is at his desk, she finds herself staring at him. Her warden doesn’t leer after her like the men in the halls – instead, he seems indifferent. She wonders how long that shall last.

When he orders her to write to the King in her own hand, she refuses.

“If I am to write to the King,” Lyarra says, fury her only company, “I shall write my own words. I shall not be your messenger.”

Lord Lannister stares at her, stoic in his reserve. He sets the quill beside her hands, his own coming to rest on her shoulders. If he wasn’t a Lannister, she may have mistaken his touch for gentle. Kind, even. But she knows better than to mistake control for kindness, to misinterpret the puppet for the master.

“Self preservation is what you wolves lack.”

Lyarra wants to scream that it’s not _self preservation_ she lacks; but obedience.

“I think I’m preserving myself just fine,” Lyarra says, each word a blade of their own. “I’m still alive, while many are not.”

“Don’t mistake luck for logic,” Tywin murmurs.

“Luck?” She echoes. “I have killed for life; battled for my future. I need no luck here.”

He laughs. Cold, vapid, and loud, he bellows so the heavens can hear him and maybe the hells too. She shrinks away at the sound, like a bird trying to escape the bell toll of a sept. In all her weeks here, she has never so much as heard Tywin Lannister raise his voice, let alone laugh freely.

She wants to rip out his vocal chords, and serve them to his daughter. _Try to laugh now,_ she would say.

“You truly are stupid,” Tywin spits, his hand coming to wrap around her neck. He applies pressure; not enough to kill her, but enough to make her sit up straight. “You think you’re alive because you fought for it?” He laughs again, disdainful.  “You’re alive because I ordered it.”

She lets out a sigh. “Of course, how foolish of me. I am alive because the great Tywin Lannister brought me.”

He lets go of her neck. “I do not waste my gold on whores.”

“Whores?” She echoes. “I wasn’t aware I had joined a brothel.”

Tywin circles her, like the lion his sigil portrays. In his hand is a dagger; a small blade that could do enough damage if willed. He lifts his tunic to the blade, cleaning the knife's edge carefully.

“A woman can be three things in this world: the whore, the mother or the virgin.” Tywin turns to face her, the blade coming to rest at the space between her breasts. “I know what you are, Lyarra Snow.”

“And what does that make the man that beds them?” Lyarra spits, her stomach heaving. In his eyes, she finds the stare of the men in the halls. _Want,_ it whispers.

Tywin splits open her dress with his blade. “A conqueror.”

She stares at him, her anger molten gold flowing through her veins. The Baratheons may have claimed fury as their own, but in this moment, fury belongs to no one else but her.

Lyarra juts her chin out. “You think I would quiver at a man’s gaze? I’m used to it. Strip me bare but I shall never yield.”

Tywin’s hand comes to brush her nipple. “I would imagine so. Laying with your brother, with the King before that… you have been quite busy.”

“I never laid with your King.” Lyarra feels a wave of nausea at the idea. “He never touched me.”

Tywin leans down, his breath fanning over her face. _He’s a predator,_ she thinks, _he would hunt me down, take away my skin, and devour my flesh to satisfy his own needs. A true lion._ “It matters not whether he fucked you, my little wolf. It matters only that people think he did.”

She hates him. This molten fury, this outrage, boils within her like led. She wants to kill him; she wants to skin him as the Boltons had bragged. _But you cannot,_ a voice taunts, _he is the only thing between you and the Stranger._

 _Death shall wait for another day,_ she decides, doing the only thing she can really think of: she spits in his face.

Tywin flinches as the ball of saliva hits his eyebrow, dripping down over his cheek. Lyarra smiles.

“Conquer **that.** ”

Tywin snarls at her; his control lapsing.

“You shall write to your brother,” Tywin says coldly, “or I shall go to Sansa.”

His words bite – a threat within a threat. She doesn’t need to be told twice.

Her clumsy cursive brings back memories of Septa Mordane, and her crowing nags. She pays no attention to how Lord Lannister snatches the letter from her once she’s done – his own voice spiteful as he leaves the room. _Dearest Robb,_ she had written, her heart aching with every letter. Lies, and bargains. _Just surrender_ , she writes. _Yours, Lya._

As soon as he’s gone, she smashes her hands against the desk – letting out a scream. She hates this. She hates the Capital. She hates imprisonment. And she hates the Lannisters.

 _Don’t believe me, Robb,_ she pleads, _please don’t believe me._

* * *

He doesn’t believe her. He doesn’t surrender. He doesn’t leave Casterly Rock.

Instead, he sends a bag filled with golden hair.

 _Give me what’s mine, and I shall give you yours,_ the King in the North writes.

It’s the first night Tywin touches her.

“He thinks you’re his,” Tywin murmurs, his hands coming to rest on the strings of her corset. “Are you?”

“I’m no ones.” _What a lie._

Tywin chuckles, his voice tilting as he turns her around. Hunger, she sees, and she knows his intent. For all the time she had wilted away in his tower, she had known this day would come. Men are all the same, and in the end, Tywin Lannister is like the rest of them – ruled by his own lust.

Her heart aches. _I don’t want this._

“A woman does not belong to herself,” Tywin snaps, his hand coming to open her gown. Pimples rise on her skin at the feel of the cold, her nipples hardening at the chill. She just hopes her scars are enough to keep him limp.

“Is that what your daughter thinks?” Lyarra taunts. “She thinks herself free from ownership. She thinks herself the Queen, in all honesty. I’d imagine her son might object to his mother’s delusions.”

“Even Queens can be owned,” Tywin breathes, his hands coming to his own laces. He grabs her hand, placing it on his crotch. She can feel the length of him through his breeches, the tip wet with anticipation. She has felt it all before, but this was not Robb. This was a stranger, a man who would rather conquer her than fuck her. “You think yourself free from this?”

“You can’t own a person,” Lyarra spits, shoving him away and squeezing his cock all the while. He winces and she curses her nails for not being longer. “I won’t be willing.”

He smiles, baring his teeth. “You think I care?”

“Your Gods will,” Lyarra says, clutching to strings. She thinks of her lessons with Septa Mordane, clinging to morality Tywin Lannister has not. For how can you bargain with a lion, when he knew no right or wrong? _This man ordered the murders of babes in their beds,_ she thinks, _he is not above claiming a woman with force._ “There is no redemption in rape.”

Tywin clicks his tongue, obviously bored with her chatter. This is what has existed between them for days; a battle of wills. She had hoped to delay him for a few more days, but she knows it is inevitable. _They send rapers to the Wall, and yet allow Lords with gold to do what they want._

In that moment she curses the Gods, old and new. _I shall think of Robb,_ she decides, as he hardens beneath her hand. _And it shall be over quickly._

“The Gods shall not forgive any of my sins,” Tywin mutters, “and I shall not think they will forgive this either.”

He tastes acidic as he forces his tongue into her mouth. If she had the choice, she would bite it off, but she knows that violence is not an option here. Tywin Lannister has made himself immortal in this tower that her father once occupied. She couldn’t so much as draw blood if she valued her survival.

She imagines it would be a quick death if she was to hurt the patriarch of the Lannister family. She would pay the iron price, her blood coating the same steps her fathers had. And Robb would hear the news of her death and wage a war in her name, all because she could not bear the injustice of the Gods.

She has no intent on being killed. Not today. And so when his hands dip under her skirts, she doesn’t fight as she wishes to. Instead, she imagines herself in the Godswood at Winterfell.

Instead, she thinks of Robb. She can almost hear his voice as he sings about the girl with moonglow in her hair. _Robb,_ her heart clenches, as Tywin Lannisters fingers trace the place only one man had known. His fingers prod forward, entering her – clawing at her insides and taking away whatever dignity she had left.

She doesn’t see the blade, nor does she notice the determination on Lord Tywin's face until it is too late. Pain consumes her as something cuts at her thigh, and suddenly she knows what Tywin Lannister is doing.

“Get off, get off!” Lyarra screams, agony ripping through her as Tywin mutilates her skin.

“Quiet,” Tywin orders, “or I shall take your whole cunt.”

She had made the mistake of misjudging him; had thought he would want to take her as other men did. She had mistaken Tywin Lannister for a simple man, a man like his son by law. And for her foolishness, Tywin had granted her mutilation – a scar she would have to bear for the rest of her life, long or short.

Her tears have run dry by the time Tywin finishes.  

A piece of skin in his hands, which used to belong on her upper thigh, drips with blood. Her birthmark, something Robb once lavished his praise on, is gone. Now, it belongs to Tywin Lannister.

He wraps up the piece of skin carefully, in an embroidered handkerchief. It looks to be Sansa’s work, with the fine stitching and the crosses in the corner. Sansa had always had a steady hand, and fine fingers. But Lyarra cannot focus on the favour for too long, for all she can see is his broad shoulders, weeping from the scratches she had left.

Lyarra lies on the bed, defeated. Her chest, rising with every breath, is smeared with blood. She is still bleeding. _The sheets shall be soaked,_ she thinks, as she stares out at the sea. _And the mattress too._

“You shouldn’t cry over one scar,” Tywin says simply, as he watches her from his desk. His laces, still undone, taunt her. “It’s childish.”

She wants to scream, but her throat is already raw.

“Really, I cannot stand a weeping woman,” Tywin dismisses, throwing the blood soaked piece of fabric to his desk. “Always so surprised, always pleading for mercy. They think their tears will change their fate.” He scoffs, so horribly monstrous. “But it’s always the same, of course. The same pleas, the same words, the same tears. If you wonder why the Gods have deemed you the weaker sex, you only need look at how often a woman weeps over a lost cause.”

A sob rips through her throat, to his enjoyment.

“Really, you should have seen it coming,” He says simply. “Your brother sent my sisters hair in a straw bag. Did you really think I would be satisfied by the taste of your cunt? That I would simply fall at the sight of your beauty?”

“I didn’t expect this,” Lyarra rasps out.

Tywin quicks an eyebrow. “Obviously.”

He says it with such spitefulness, with such superiority, that she wants to cry even harder. Her tears come out fast, blurring her vision and creating a haze over Tywin's figure. He expects her to know what he is planning. He expects her to expect pain. He expects her to be smarter.

She _hates_ it.

It’s a small part of herself that makes her speak. It’s the part that was the warrior; the unwanted bastard that haunted the Lady of Winterfell. It wasn’t the daughter of Eddard Stark that speaks – instead, it’s the daughter of Ashara Dayne. The unwanted girl, the spiteful child. “Was your wife a weepy woman?”

His head snaps up, his eyes carrying molten fury.

That doesn’t stop her. “Or mayhaps she just didn’t care at all. Didn’t care about you, didn’t even bat an eyelid. Is that right? Am I right?”

Lyarra expects shouting. She expects anger.

She gets neither of those.

“My wife was a Lannister,” Tywin says simply, wiping his blade. “She had no use for tears.”

Lyarra scoffs, so contrite she wants to spit. “I pity her.”

“She has no use for your pity either.”

“Corpses usually don’t.”

He’s next to her in a second, his hand coming to her throat. Eyes of jade darken into hazel, anger flaring for the first time. _So this is what the lion looks like._

“Careful, little wolf,” He hisses, his hold tightening. “You should remember who you are speaking to.”

He lets her go, but she doesn’t listen to his advice.

“You don’t have to remind me who I am speaking to. I have read all about your feats, my Lord,” Lyarra murmurs. “While you may treat me as a whore, I was raised in Winterfell as the daughter of Eddard Stark. You guided dragons, and stags; won a throne for a man who didn’t even want it.” She moves closer to him. “You are a kingmaker, my lord. But for all your all gold and arrogance, you cannot control the Gods. It’s a pity they took your wife from you; it’s a greater pity that she took your humanity with her.”

She tastes blood when he slaps her. She spits it on the ground, next to his foot.

His hands grab her chin, jutting it forward. Indigo meets jade. Hatred meets lust. “I should take your tongue next time.”

Lyarra snorts. “You’d miss it too much to cut it out.”

“You presume too much.”

Her hand cups his crotch. “You’re hard,” Lyarra says simply, before looking down. “I presume too little.”

He smirks, before throwing her down on the bed. “Don’t tempt me, little wolf. You won’t like the result.”

He leaves her there; bloodied and panting.

She wants to scream, but she can’t.

Her thigh is still bleeding. Throbbing, actually. Ivory fingers come back red, and she winces. “Breathe,” Lyarra murmurs to herself, a reminder. Her breath comes out shaky. “Just breathe.”

But she can’t.

She doesn’t think she will ever be able to again.

* * *

In her dreams, she can see Robb.

Hair of auburn, eyes of the river, and a frown mar his face.

He is talking to someone, his words garbled. She is lying by the fire, warmth spreading over her skin.

“News from Kings Landing?” Someone asks.

Robb looks dismayed. “She is alive. Apparently badly beaten.”

Heavy footsteps meet her ears, and it’s then, she spots the familiar sight of Harrion Karstark. A rumble rips through her chest, and the smell of pine burns her nose. _He always smells like the woods._

“We shall get her back, your grace,” Lord Karstark says, but she is drifting away, itching to do something other than to sit.

She wants to run. She wants to kill.

Scrambling to her feet, she sprints from the room. The smell of him is too overbearing, and she knows she must leave.

But oh, how she wishes to stay there – with him.

* * *

The first time he lets her leave the Tower, he makes her wear gold.

“It is fitting,” Tywin murmurs, his hand coming to cover her bruised neck. _Always bruised._ “You are mine, after all.”

She swallows as he presses a kiss to the hollow of her neck. Someday, he would actually claim her. Somehow, it’s not today.

Just because she is allowed to roam does not mean she is unguarded. Tywin has made sure she is followed. Five of his cronies flank her, their footsteps heavy, and foreboding. Lyarra wonders if the sound would be familiar to the dead.

She can see the eyes of the courtiers as they follow her like the vultures they are. They watch her with interest, for she is only a whispered piece of gossip to them. She knows they will flock back to their apartments, gossip in hand like one of their fineries. _The Stark bastard dressed as a lion’s whore,_ she imagines them crowing.

 _They would not be wrong,_ a voice whispers; the same voice that reminds her of shame, and bastardry. She wills the voice away, increasing her speed so to escape the serpents nest. Lyarra almost laughs at that thought. _Escape? Only in death would I be so lucky._

It takes her an hour to find the Godswood, although she wouldn’t be quick to call it such. It is a barren place – void of any sign of life. No weirwood, no ponds, no sanctity. She wonders why they would even bother to name it as such. Like most things of the capital, it is a fraud. One that she very much wants to forget.

She is not there but two minutes when she hears a voice, “My Lady Lyarra.”

Turning, a man with skin of bronze smiles at her.

She tries to remember; but it has been a sennight since she has last seen his face.

He chuckles, stepping forward. She retreats a step back. “I don’t think we were properly introduced.”

“You’re from Dorne,” Lyarra surmises, feeling oddly stupid.

He grins; blinding, and beautiful. “What gave it away?”

This man with the beautiful smile, and eyes the colour of warm honey, is jesting. It takes her a moment to realise it, to hear the deprecation. _He wants you to smile,_ a voice whispers to her, _men always feel better when a woman smiles._

But she doesn’t. She can’t. He soon realises that.

“Martell,” Lyarra says, the name foreign. It sticks in her throat, like a puzzle piece. “You’re Prince Oberyn.”

His smile grows, but all she can think of is Elia Martell and her two children. _Slaughtered,_ she recalls, _and split in half_. “If you wish me to be.”

Lyarra wants to glower as she once would have; return his jape with snark. She thinks he wants that too. But last night, Tywin Lannister had cut her again. _Your brother needs more convincing,_ he had said, as she screamed. She is still bleeding.

She doesn’t think she can produce snark today.

“I did not think a Martell would be interested in the Old Gods,” Lyarra murmurs, turning back to where a large oak tree sits. _Fraud._

“I am not,” Prince Oberyn says. “But I heard whispers that you might be.”

His tone lilts, and she turns to look at him over her shoulder. “I haven’t been here yet.”

“I’ve been waiting.”

She glares at him; deciding she doesn’t like his cockiness. She has seen it before, worn by stronger men, knights and Kings alike. But when the winds of war blew, they fell – their cockiness unable to save them when the Stranger called their name. “Go wait somewhere else then.”

He smiles even wider. “Aye, Princess, I shall. But I just couldn’t help myself.”

Prince Oberyn steps forward as she turns, his eyes raking over her figure. She knows the stare of men, but this didn’t feel so familiar; didn’t feel so self serving. With just two steps, he is in front of her – his eyes trapped on hers.

He raises a hand, and she flinches, only for him to push a curl out of her eyes. There is a softness in his gaze, a pity. It takes her a moment to realise he is not going to hurt her, this man of poisoned spears and vipers. Oberyn Martell stares at her with pity in his eyes, and she feels wrong to receive it. “They have dressed you up as a Southron whore,” Oberyn whispers, “and I could eat you up.”

Lyarra jerks back. “I am _no_ whore.”

“There is nothing wrong with being a whore.” Oberyn smiles. “Sex is not a sin to be punished for.”

Her cheeks flush with anger, the rage grating on her skin. She knows what he must think, what he must assume. The whispers have followed her from the day King Joffrey declared her Tywin's new toy; whispers of what a lion would do to a wolf cub. “I have not fucked him.”

The _yet_ hangs in the air between them. She wants to say it would be rape, but any objection would fall flat in front of a Dornish Prince.

“I didn’t think you had,” Prince Oberyn murmurs, before he glances down to her gown. His eyebrows knit together, true discomfort piercing his skin. He wears pain beautifully, almost as well as he wears his sigil. “You wear his colours, no?”

The gold is garish when she looks down. “Just one.”

Oberyn shakes his head, his hand coming to smooth the gown near her gash. “Red too.”

She swears beneath her breath at the sight of the scarlet river staining the gold fabric, something that would have gotten her ten lashes if she was still a child. Septa Mordane would have strung her from the ceiling if she had heard her say such things, but Robb had always enjoyed her loose tongue.

There is a part of Lyarra that knows she should make up some story, but she has a feeling Prince Oberyn wouldn’t appreciate some lie. This is a man who has known lies and so she stays silent – her cheeks as red as the blood staining her gown. And for her silence, Oberyn Martell gives her nothing but a sad smile.

“You are not the first woman to be used for her blood,” Oberyn murmurs, “but you must be the most beautiful.”

Lyarra recoils, her stomach churning. “I thought that title would go to your sister.”

“Elia was not used for her blood.”

Lyarra cannot help herself. “Her title then?”

A shadow crosses his face. “There are ears here, my Lady. Ears that would not appreciate such chatter.”

“There are ears everywhere,” Lyarra says, her face pinched in disdain. The capital has turned her quiet. She hates it.

“None in Dorne,” Prince Oberyn whispers, his hand coming to her cheek. “Your eyes… they say you inherited them from Ashara Dayne?”

Lyarra nods, thinking of the stranger who birthed her. The ghost that was Ashara Dayne hangs over her like a cloud, a shadow that never leaves. “Depending on who you ask.”

“Your father made sure it was Ashara,” Oberyn breathes, a glint in his eyes. “Funny, though – I seem to remember the Daynes had violet eyes.”

Lyarra imagines her; a woman with beautiful hair of brown and purple eyes. _She must have been beautiful indeed to draw the eye of the honourable Eddard Stark,_ Theons voice cackles, her memory sharp and cruel.  

“Yours, on the other hand,” Oberyn drawls, “they’re more indigo. Although I can see how some may confuse them.”

With that, he takes his turn – walking away from her.

“I shall see you again, Princess,” Oberyn calls, “and if you wish to find me, you only need pray; I am a pious man at heart, after all.”

* * *

She goes to the Godswood whenever she can.

Lord Lannister allows her an hour each day to go for a walk, and she spends it carefully. First, she tries to lose the guards that Tywin has ordered follow her. When that doesn’t work, she wanders the halls – hoping with a blind desperation that she will stumble upon Sansa. She is still yet to see her.

When all else fails, she goes to the Godswood – the place that Prince Oberyn seems to occupy more often than not. He is always alone, even though Lyarra knows he has a concubine somewhere in the Keep. He never mentions her.

“You shall be happy to know that the King will not marry until the Westerlands are back under control,” Oberyn says one day, as if it is the news she has been waiting for. In truth, she could care not for anything to do with the King – the only news she would welcome be his untimely death. She wants to hear that Joffrey Lannister has fallen on his sword, rather than matters of diplomacy with the West.

“Will I?” She asks, looking at the Oak tree. The battle for the westerlands seems so far from her now; so distant. If she tries, she can still see the blood of the battlefield, as it had snaked down the hills of the west and painted the grass red.

Oberyn nods, his eyes sweeping over her. It is the same every time they meet. While Oberyn may not be like other men she knows, he still has the same desires. Lyarra thinks Oberyn would have her on her back in mere seconds if he had his way. She also thinks he would have some of the guards on their backs too, if he had such an appetite.

She does not delude herself in the thought that the Prince of Dorne looked only at her. She has heard enough whispers to know that Prince Oberyn had an appetite larger than most men; but smaller than Renly Baratheon. Her heart clenches at the thought Renly, _sweet Renly,_ slaughtered by a shadow with his brothers face.

“Or so they are saying. The Hand will not allow for a wedding while another man holds his lands.”

“I’m sure the Queen Regent is happy about that,” Lya says. “She doesn’t have to give up her title just yet.”

“The Tyrell’s aren’t happy.” Oberyn ignores her quip. “I suppose they had thought to have a Queen by now.”

“That’s what they paid for, after all,” Lyarra murmurs, before turning to where Oberyn is sitting. He is dressed in a vibrant orange tunic today, and his neck is bruised. Lyarra wants to ask where they came from, but she has a feeling she already knows the answer. “How is Loras?”

“The rose of Highgarden?”

Lyarra glowers. “Don’t be cruel.”

His breath sprays over her neck. “I do not judge the desires of others, Princess. It would make me quite the hypocrite.” Lyarra flushes. “He is as well as can be expected. I hear he was quite fond of Lord Renly.”

Lyarra can see them now; happy, and alive. Her heart aches thinking about the man who gave her armour. Renly was never meant for death. He was vibrant and strong and he died anyway, struck down by greed and treachery. His brother may have killed him, but it could have been ambition that stabbed a knife through his heart.

“You were fostered by him, no?”

“I was betrothed to one of the Kings bastards,” Lyarra corrects. Storm’s End is a mirage in her memories, a place of uncertainty and slight freedom. But it is also the place of her nightmares, the place she learnt of her father’s death. “I was only in Storm’s End so that I could be close to the King.”

“Yes, he was enthralled, I heard.” Oberyn moves closer to her, his eyes sharp. “I don’t see how. The eyes should have told him it wasn’t his Lyanna.”

“I am a ghost to many people.” Lyarra shrugs. “Or at least I was. Most of them are dead now.”

“It would be an insult to the Gods to compare you to a corpse,” Oberyn murmurs, “even one as beautiful as Lyanna Stark.”

Lyarra looks up, confused. “You knew my Aunt?”

Oberyn chuckles. “Her beauty is not a question. Her intentions, mayhaps, but not her beauty.”

“Her intentions?” Lyarra asks. “She was abducted, raped, and left for dead in Dorne.”

“Was she?” Oberyn shifts so that he can look at her. “My good brother may have dishonoured my sister, but I did not take him for a rapist.”

“You can argue the facts all you want,” Lyarra snaps, “but my father spoke to her, and brought her back to Winterfell. That’s what she told him before she died.”

Oberyn’s eyes shine with curiosity. “Did he tell you that?”

“It is known,” Lyarra says simply. “Everyone knows what happened. Rhaegar stole Lyanna, raped her, and left her to die in the Tower of Joy. My father found her, and returned her to Winterfell – where she belongs.”

“Your story is missing something.”

Lyarra looks at him in confusion. “It’s not missing anything. That’s what happened.”

“Mayhaps,” Oberyn muses, “but Eddard Stark also brought a babe back to Winterfell as well.”

Lyarra flushes, feeling decidedly foolish. “Obviously.”

“There is nothing obvious about it, Princess.” Oberyn’s lips twitch, before he glances to where the guards stand. The sun has dipped in the sky, painting the Godswood orange and red. “Your hour is nearly up.”

Lyarra stands, brushing off her skirt. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

“No.” Lyarra looks up, shocked. It’s the first time in a sennight that they will not see each other. “I have some travelling to do.”

Lyarra’s eyebrows furrow. “Where…”

“I shall tell you when I return,” He cuts her off with a smile, passing her a simple piece of parchment. “Stay safe, Lady Lya.”

She watches him walk away, unrolling the piece of parchment. _To the west, for the North._

Lyarra’s heart tightens in her chest, as a breeze picks up in the wood. The wind is quick, and fast, but it sings _Robb, Robb, Robb,_ as it races past her ears.

* * *

Every day Oberyn is gone, she spends in the Godswood.

He is west – where Robb is. She can barely contain her anxiousness.

Lyarra doesn’t allow herself to think about the man she left behind in the West. He is locked away in the furthest parts of her mind. Imprisoned, just as she is. She dreams of the man with hair the colour of autumn enough to know better than to think his name; it would only make her weep. _And Lord Tywin does not like a weeping woman._

“Your hour is up, Snow,” Ser Tytus says, interrupting her thoughts.

Lyarra sighs, dusting off her skirt and pushing herself to stand. There is salt in the air, and she ponders whether she should ask to see the ocean. From the Hands Tower, she has a decent view – but she didn’t want to view it from a Tower.

The walk back to Maegor's is quiet, and Lyarra spends most of it thinking. Oberyn has been gone for nigh on a moon, with no news. It seems half the small council fled West with him, including Lord Tyrion and Lord Baelish.

Lord Tywin does not offer her any information, although she is sure he knows that Oberyn favoured her. Every wall in Kings Landing has eyes, and every tree ears. If it happened, someone would know – that she is sure.

Ser Tytus opens the door for her to the Tower, and she offers him a smile. He is always kinder than the others, and when alone, they would speak of small things. His family, his home. He was from the West, but his wife was Dornish. _She looks as summer feels,_ he once murmured, his eyes faraway and his smile bewitched by the thought of her.

Ser Tytus may be Tywin's dog, but he didn’t act as the others did. She liked him, regardless of whether that made her to be a fool. _Fool I may be,_ she thinks, _but cruel I am not._

Climbing the steps, her thoughts travel North – of that painful place she keeps locked away in her mind. She knows, without her presence, that Catelyn would be released from house arrest. Lyarra supposes it’s the right thing to do; the King needs a confidante now, more than ever.

“Leave us.”

Lyarra’s head snaps up as she wanders into the room; the sight of Tywin Lannister sitting in the solar confusing her. The Lord of Casterly Rock does not visit his rooms during the day. He usually spends his time in the small council, or hovering over his daughter like a bad smell. Handmaidens and guards alike leave the room, Ser Tytus offering his lord a quick nod – and Lyarra a wary glance.

“Lord Lannister.” He stares at Lyarra with a hunger; and … _fury._

He strides over from the desk, discarding the letters he held. It takes him but a second to be before her, his nails digging into her arm as he grabs her. “What are you doing?” Lyarra asks, as she’s jostled into his bedchambers.

She has only been in here twice before. Every time, Tywin drew blood.

Lyarra’s heart pummels against her chest as she is thrown into one of the pillars. A blade comes down to her corset, cutting at the ribbons. “Stop, stop!”

It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t listen.

She is splayed open with one simple cut, her gown being ripped from her back and thrown to the other side of the room. His usual mockery is gone from his gaze, and left in its place, is a burning rage. Her Septa once said dragons were fire made flesh, but in this moment, Tywin Lannister seemed greater than any fire the Targaryens had ever commanded.  

Tywin goes to grab her shift, but she smacks his hand away. Her desperation is a gushing river, flowing over rapids and threatening to drown her. “No.”

A laugh rumbles out of his chest, and his hand finds her hair. “Don’t struggle, little wolf. It’s not worth it.”

Lyarra looks for the blade. It’s discarded on the floor. “Not going to cut me today?”

“Your wolf got the message,” Tywin sneers, before forcing his lips on hers.

Lyarra lets out a noise of surprise, gagging at the taste of Dornish wine and lemons. He always tastes of sour acid, his tongue sending repulsion through her body. She pushes at his chest, desperate and greedy for air. But no amount of strength, nor exertion would remove Tywin from her lips. It takes but a second for her teeth to come down, and rip into his lip.

Roaring, Tywin throws Lyarra on the bed.

“That hurt,” He says, thumbing his bottom lip. Blood coats his fingers, and her stomach surges with victory.

Lyarra can taste the blood, and the panic. “ _Good_.”

Scrambling to get away from him, Lyarra struggles to get off the bed – only for Tywin to pull her back by her ankle. His blade comes to her shift, tearing the thin cotton from her back.

 _He’s going to take you,_ a voice whispers. _Don’t struggle._ But she cannot listen to her logic or sanity, not when Tywin's hands poke at her small clothes and threaten to rob her of what little she had left.

“Stop,” Lyarra cries, realising that there is no way she can escape.

He is already on top of her before she can blink, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth, and the taste of iron meeting her tongue. She screams against his lips, but he doesn’t take notice. Why would he? _He’s getting what he wants_.

He leans back, his palm leaving a sting on her cheek. “Shut up.” She opens her mouth to scream again, when he slaps her once more. Grabbing her chin between his hands, he sneers, “Be quiet, and this will be quick.”

“Fuck. You.” She lashes out from under him, her tiny hands fists as they hit wherever they can reach. She loses all sense of control, all sense of direction. _Panic is the greatest enemy of victory,_ Dacey had once told her. But she cannot stop the panic from taking control, as she thinks of Elia Martell and Lyanna Stark and the men that sought to ruin them.

 _No, no, no._ His hands are at his laces. _Stop. Stop. Stop._ Her screams shatter through the silence. _Please, Please, Please._ She’s begging him now. _Don’t. Don’t. Don’t._ He doesn’t listen. _Robb. Robb. Robb._

Some time during, she stops screaming.

Her throat is raw, and her cheeks wet. She doesn’t know when she started weeping. She doesn’t know if she’ll ever stop.

Tywin sits at the end of the bed, lacing up his breeches. His seed is drying between her thighs, rotting at her insides and threatening to take more from her. “We have come to an agreement with the King in the North.”

Her heart stutters. _Robb. Robb. Robb._

The ringing in her ear screams _death, death, death._

She doesn’t respond.   

Tywin glances over his shoulder. Her core aches, leaking with the shame of his crime and the blood of hers. “Your sister is to be sent North. And Westeros is to be sliced in half.”

Her voice doesn’t sound like her own when she finally speaks, “What?”

“The North will secede.”

He stands up, his footsteps heavy as he leaves her to her own thoughts, and her bloodied featherbed.

_The North will secede._

_The North will secede._

_The North will secede._

And somehow, she finds a slither of hope in the darkness.

* * *

Looking at Tywin Lannister makes her want to wretch, but she has no other choice.

Lyarra wants answers; and he is the only one that will supply them.

“What are the terms of the treaty?” Lyarra asks, her mouth still bitter from the taste of the moon tea. She is used to it; she had taken it religiously in those days spent in the Riverlands.

It has been days since he had taken her, but she could not stop the feeling of horror that falls over her skin.

Tension builds in her chest, coiling and ready to snap back. She can feel it; the dread twisting around her lungs, and slowly robbing her of each breath of air, all because she was sitting beside him.

Breaths shorten, palms twitch, heart stutters. Acid crawls up her throat, clawing at her chest. _Fingers inside her. Blood in her mouth. A scream shattering the silence._

Lyarra does not need Tywin to tell her the truth. Like dew, dread clings to her skin – a whisper of what is to come. Past grief rears its ugly head, whispering of her bastardry and shame.  

“Your sister’s marriage is to be annulled,” Tywin says, piercing his mutton, “and she is to return North. Your father’s bones will also be returned. The North is to become independent. The Riverland’s will not. The North is to enter into a trade agreement with the crown, and Westeros is to be sliced in two at the neck.”

A whoosh of breath escapes her. “And what of me?”

Tywin continues to eat. “What of you?”

Her teeth slice into the flesh of her lip, drawing blood. The blood reminds her of that night, where blood stained her featherbed and her skin. She has only just stopped bleeding, the Maester having been forced to take a rag to her core. “Will I return North?”

“You are mine,” Tywin states, his eyes meeting hers. Bile crawls up her throat at the sight of his jade orbs, winter burning in his gaze. “Why would the King in the North want you?”

Lyarra’s stomach drops.

Dread coils. Heart clenches. Lungs contract. Winter blooms in her gut, filling her veins with ice. She knows disappointment, but nothing can compare to this despair. _He doesn’t want me._

Hope deserts her; and a heaviness sets in. Her rejection is weighted in her gut, so much so that she can taste its bitterness. But beyond the grief, there is the smell of pine. If she closes her eyes, she can imagine him here, standing behind her, as he once had. If she closes her eyes, she is sure she would be able to taste him.

 _Why did you let him touch you,_ he would ask, the word _whore_ on his lips.

She doesn’t realise she is crying, until she tastes salt.

Lyarra knows it is stupid to let her emotions run free in front of her captor, but the little control she has left abandoned her along with Robb. _He saw your tears earlier,_ a voice whispers, _when he took your freedom._

For all that she wishes her skin would turn to marble, and her spine would straighten to steel, she feels herself descending into the pain of an unwanted woman. While painful, it is familiar. Being unwanted is not foreign to Lyarra Snow. Like the scars that line her skin, or the indigo of her eyes, she knows what it means to be discarded. She is reminded every time she catches her reflection; the sight of eyes inherited from a stranger who didn’t want her never quite loses its bite.

_He doesn’t want me._

“Do stop weeping,” Tywin finally says. “I can’t bear the sight of a crying woman.”

Lyarra wants to scream Elia Martell's name. _Did you rape her too,_ she wants to ask, fury and fear warring within her. But she can’t speak. Her voice is caged by grief; if she speaks, she is sure what little control she has left will break.

The scrape of the chair alerts her to Tywin's movement.

His hands come to her shoulders, fingers pushing back her hair. “The South needs a few northern trinkets. Count yourself lucky that you’re mine.”

He lays a kiss on her cheek, and Lyarra tastes blood in her mouth.

* * *

The child King looks at her with disdain when she finally faces him again.

The Hand has kept her away from the Great Hall for moons, offering excuse after excuse. Now, there are none left to protect her.

“You’re looking weaker, bastard,” King Joffrey taunts. “Has my Grandfather fucked the life out of you?”

Lyarra doesn’t respond. Her eyes are still searching for Sansa, the sheer hope that her sister is here overpowering her need to put on a show. But she never is here, not when they parade Lyarra before the iron throne.  

“You will answer your King,” Cersei Lannister sneers, all bark and no bite.

Lyarra sighs, swallowing whatever pride she has left, and meets the eyes of the King. “Yes, your grace.”

“Good,” King Joffrey bellows, looking to his grandfather. “It is about time a Stark learnt some obedience.”

“I’m no Stark,” Lyarra murmurs, the words all too familiar. “I am just a bastard, my lord.”

“Your grace,” King Joffrey corrects.

Lyarra doesn’t know what compels her to open her mouth, but something deep within her forces the words from her lips, “I am not a Queen either, your grace. Lyarra will do just fine.”

 _That shall cost me,_ she thinks.  

Joffrey stands abruptly, bearing his teeth. “You insolent bitch.”

Lyarra wants to laugh, but she knows her laughter will only cause more problems.

“I’m sorry, your grace,” Lyarra murmurs, meeting his gaze. Beside him, Jaime Lannister stands; it’s the second time she’s seen him.

Jaime Lannister is not how she remembers. But she can’t focus on that; not now. She has been called to the Great Hall for a reason, and she should like to hear it.

“The Hand has told you, then,” The King sneers, “about your brother.”

Lyarra offers a small nod.

“Then you should know,” The King says, “that I am to be married in a moon. Your sister is set to be sent North, and you shall be the only thing left for us here. My grandfather calls you his own little northern trinket.”

Lyarra wants to vomit.

“Do you like that, Snow?” Joffrey asks, standing up from his throne. With four steps, he is before her, his golden face ugly and twisted. “Our little northern trinket.”

Lyarra flinches away from his touch. “If it please your grace.”

“It pleases me,” Joffrey breathes, his eyes going to her chest. “You should be happy to know, Snow, that I will enjoy having a northern trinket around.” He leans closer then, his lips at her ear. “And with my wife attending to the duties of Queen, I shall need someone to keep my bed warm.”

Lyarra steps back, her face ashen. The words are thick, and get stuck in her throat, but she knows she must say it. “If it please your grace.”

“Good,” Joffrey murmurs, before turning on his foot. “You shall be pleased to know that your brother has wasted no time in returning North.”

“Pleased,” Lyarra whispers. How could she be pleased with this situation?

“And that he is set to wed,” Joffrey taunts, turning to smile at her. “Roslin Frey.”

Lyarra’s stomach drops and winter fills her veins. Her horror comes, and disappears just as quickly. This betrayal cannot be seen on her face, not when she is before the entire court. And so, she maintains a face of stoic reserve, while her heart is crumbling.

Lyarra inhales deeply, and plasters a smile on her lips. “What a pity for the King in the North, your grace. I fear a Frey Queen will never be able to compete with Lady Margaery.”

Joffrey grins, baring his teeth. “Do you wish it were you, Snow? Do you wish the King in the North was wedding you?”

 _Yes,_ she wishes to cry, _gods, yes._

Instead, she blinks. “A Frey will do him well, your grace.”

She looks away then, feeling as if she is choking on her sorrow. Lyarra tries to stop herself from kneeling over in grief, and pulls her eyes to the iron throne – watching as the King climbs those familiar stairs. And then her gaze goes to Jaime Lannister, who stands, unchained, and beautiful.

His eyes, jade and bright, say _I know._

She wishes they didn’t.

* * *

In her dreams, she can hear a wolf howl at the moon.

In her dreams, her chest doesn’t feel like it’s caving in.

The visions of fur covered feet pounding at the ground leave her, and she returns to her body. There, she feels the dull ache that has consumed her for days. It says _Robb. Robb. Robb._

She wishes it didn’t.

Tywin calls her despondent, or had when he had tried to take her last night.

 _“You look like heartbreak, girl,”_ He sneered, pushing out of her, _“Mayhaps you should control yourself better.”_

She didn’t respond. How could she? Robb was to be wed.

A sob rips through Lyarra’s chest, and she quickly quiets herself. Even in the dark quiet of night, she cannot grieve. _There are always eyes watching._

* * *

 

Ser Jaime Lannister walks with a purpose.  

He strides into the Tower of the Hand, determination on his face; fury in his step. Months before, he had been covered in mud and defeat. Now, he wears a white cloak with golden armour. _A true golden knight,_ she thinks, before her eyes go to his golden hand. She hadn’t seen it in the Great Hall a week prior. _Too distracted by grief._

A laugh bursts from her lips, and the sound seems foreign to her own ears. “They cut off your hand?”

Jaime seems shocked to see her. She doesn’t know why; everyone knows she resides in Tywin Lannisters tower.

“Who did it?” She asks, using her voice for the first time in days. Sorrow is a cruel keeper, and had seen fit to take her voice, just as it crumbled her heart. But the tight vice that had once suffocated her is now easing, allowing her a simple reprieve. “Was it the Tarth woman? Please tell me she did this.”

Jamie glowers at her. “It was not Brienne.” He waits just a moment longer before he admits, “It was a sellsword working for Roose Bolton.”

A hysterical giggle escapes her, and it seems to shock him just as much as it does her.  “Gods, how I wish I could have been there.” She pushes herself off the loveseat, coming closer to him. “It’s your swords hand too. This is better than a name day and any of the holy days combined.”

“I did not come here for you to laugh at my hand,” Jaime hisses, stalking over to where the wine is kept.

Lyarra smiles brightly, and she feels stranger for it. She hasn’t felt like smiling in a long time; not since she came to this wretched place. But Ser Jaime offers a distraction, a way to not think about her reality. “Apologies, Ser Jaime. Please accept my condolences for your hand, and for Cersei Lannister's cunt.”

He is upon her then, his left hand squeezing her arm. “You still haven’t learned to be quiet?”

The words are too like his fathers. “I’m learning,” Lyarra grits out, her thoughts going to a bloodied featherbed and leather hands roaming over her body; to bridges in the Neck, and loving kisses to a promised man.

“I can see that,” Ser Jaime says, his good hand brushing a bruise on her neck.

Lyarra shakes him off, narrowing her eyes. “Why are you here? Have you come to taunt me?”

“I don’t taunt,” Ser Jaime murmurs. “I came to see the Hand. Have you seen him?”

“It’s ironic you’re looking for a hand,” Lyarra jests, trying to ignore the stinging that flares in her chest. _Robb will marry a Frey,_ it taunts, as if she could ever forget. She would take all the beatings again, and even the rapes, to forget that small fact. “But if you’re looking for your father, then I imagine he is either sitting on that ugly throne of his, or scaring children.”

Ser Jaime narrows his eyes. “Humour is a poor man's shield.”

“What am I shielding myself from, Ser Jaime?” Lyarra asks, fury burning through her. _They’ve already taken everything else._

“I’d imagine grief,” Ser Jaime says, “and mayhaps jealousy.”

“Jealousy?” Lyarra snorts.

“Jealous of your sister?” He questions, while the other option is left unsaid. _Jealous of a Frey._

A shadow passes over her face at the mention of Sansa. “Leave, Ser Jaime,” Lyarra snaps, turning on her heels to go back to the loveseat by the window. “I’m not in the mood to be antagonised.”  

Ser Jaime scoffs. “Pretty words, but I fear you’re the one in chains now. You don’t even have your wolf by your side. I heard it was slaughtered at the Rock-”

She throws a goblet at this head.

“Leave!” Lyarra demands, her chest heaving. She doesn’t want to hear about Ghost, or Robb, or any of them. She just wants to be left in peace. “I won’t tell you again.”

“You don’t need to,” Ser Jaime says. “I actually came here to deliver something.”

Lyarra doesn’t bother looking at him.

Ser Jaime rustles through his doublet for the letter, before placing it carefully on the table.

Lyarra looks up, cautiously retrieving it. When she sees the familiar scrawl, she rips it open, desperate to read everything.

_My dear Lya,_

_It is funny that we are so close here in the capital, and yet so far, still. I have beseeched them to let me see you, but they seem determined to keep us a part._

_I am to leave on the sennight, before the King weds Lady Margaery. In that time, I doubt they will let me see you._

_I wish to offer you advice for this place. Trust no one, and do not show weakness before the King. Lord Tyrion is kind, but he is in his cups more often than not._

_I have heard the rumours, and know that you are a ward to Lord Tywin. I fear you have not had my luck._

_If your bleeding stops, seek out Lord Tyrion, or request a ladies maid. Ask for Shae. She will get you what you need._

_I desperately hope to see you before I leave, but I know that may not happen._

_I shall tell Robb that you love him._

_Your loving sister,_

_Sansa of House Stark._

Lyarra looks up, and clears her throat. Her grief is a cloak she wears well, and it keeps her warm as Sansa’s words lash her skin. “I didn’t realise Sansa would trust you…”

“Sansa, maybe not,” Ser Jaime murmurs, “but her husband is my brother. We tend to talk.”

“Tyrion is no longer her husband,” Lyarra cuts back, her fingers tracing the line of the scrawl. “Their marriage was dissolved two days ago by royal decree.”

“Tyrion still cares for the girl,” Ser Jaime explains. “He has a soft spot for her.”

“So you’re made a raven?”

Ser Jaime chuckles. “The traditional response would be to say thank you.”

Lyarra purses her lips. “Let me see her, and I will thank you.”

“I’d rather keep my head,” Jaime says, moving to the door, “and if I was to let you two see each other, Joffrey would have it.”

 _Let him,_ she wants to say. Instead, she says, “Thank you, Ser Jaime.”

He turns to leave, and Lyarra looks back down to the letter, her heart clenching.

_I shall tell Robb you love him._

Sansa leaves on a boat destined for White Harbor a little over a week later.   

Lyarra watches from the Tower, her letter in hand, and her heart in her throat. Her sister will be safe, but that doesn’t make it any easier to see her leave. She goes North, to safety and to their family, while Lyarra remains trapped here. She’s jealous, she knows it. She wishes she wasn’t.

In her sister’s absence, Lyarra is allowed more freedom. She may walk the halls freely, now that the other Stark has gone. She supposes the Lannisters no longer have any fears of secret plans, or meetings. _This is what my life shall be,_ she thinks, as she walks alone. Every step adds to the sinking in her chest, singing _bastard, bastard, bastard._

Oberyn returns a week before the King is set to marry.

He no longer wears a smile when he stands in the Godswood. He simply stares.

“Princess,” He croaks, his dark eyes burning. “You look well.”

“Liar.” He is beside her in an instant, his hands coming to graze her most recent bruises. She doesn’t need to say it; they both know.

“You are not safe here,” Oberyn murmurs, and Lyarra wants to ring his head.

“Well, that’s obvious,” She drawls, turning to tug at her hair. She doesn’t want him staring at her bruises any more.

“I heard Lady Sansa left.”

Lyarra turns to the Oak tree. “Yes, a sennight ago. She left for White Harbor.”

“I’m sorry.”

Lyarra blinks. “Why? She’s safe now. Don’t be sorry.”

“Safe,” Oberyn echoes, his face twisting with grief. “No one is truly safe, Princess.”

 _I know,_ she wants to say, the gash in her side speaking for itself. “Robb will protect her.”

“You place faith in a man you haven’t seen in moons,” Oberyn says. “It’s dangerous.”

“I know Robb,” Lyarra sneers, forgetting that this is how Oberyn is: infuriating. “He would die before he let harm come to her.”

“Just as he died for you?” He asks, taunting her.

The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them. “Just as you died for Elia?”  

“That’s cruel.”

“So are your assumptions,” Lyarra spits, before she calms. “I’m sorry, I know it was.” Crossing to where he stands, she offers him a truce in the form of a smile. “I am going mad here. Madder than before.”

“This place does that to people,” Oberyn murmurs, moving away from her. “I didn't mean to insult your King before. Truly, it wasn’t my intent.”

“No harm, no foul.”

“There was harm,” Oberyn says, casting a gaze over his shoulder. “I saw it on your face. Right next to the anger.”

“Forgive me for protecting the name of my brother.”

“Brother,” Oberyn repeats, scoffing. His face darkens then, before he turns on his foot. “He cares for you too much.”

Lyarra’s head snaps up. Stuttering, she gasps out, “You spoke to him?”

“I was negotiating a treaty, Princess, along with Tyrion Lannister and too many Tyrell’s to count,” Oberyn drawls. “Speaking is required.”

“How is he?” Lyarra asks, scrambling for answers. “Did he mention me? What… what did he say? Did you see a white wolf with him?”

A ghost of a smile appears on Oberyn’s lips. “Your wolf is fine.  Your King, on the other hand…” He trails off, before noticing the stricken expression on her face. “He is unreasonable, when it comes to you.”

“You spoke to him about me?”

“Mostly,” He murmurs. “You are all he talks about.”

Her cheeks burn, because Oberyn is staring at her with _that_ look. He knows. And she can’t feel shame about it.

“But he is healthy?” Lyarra asks. “I never knew if he was injured in the battle. They captured me before I could see him.”

“His body is fine,” Oberyn confirms, “but his mind is plagued by grief. I imagine that won’t change.”

_He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s fine._

Lyarra feels as if she can breathe again. “He’s fine.”  

Oberyn is watching her, she knows it. She can feel his black eyes gazing at her, taking her apart second by second.  “A broken man cannot be fine.”

“But he’s still breathing,” Lyarra murmurs, “and that’s all that matters. He can be broken all he wants. He can recover from pain. He can’t recover from death.”

“Death is easier than grief,” Oberyn says, haunted. “You should know that.”

“Can’t unslit a throat, Oberyn,” Lyarra snaps, “or bring back the dead. There’s a reason why Northern women tell their children tales of the walking dead to scare them. The dead should be left in the ground, where mayhaps they can find some peace.”

A beat of silence is interrupted by a question, “You don’t wish to bring back Eddard Stark?”

Lyarra turns, incensed. “What do you know of my father? Truly? You didn’t know him.”

“Just as you didn’t know Elia,” Oberyn sneers, for once actually angry, “but you still manage to say her name.”

“If you did not look at me like I am her ghost, maybe then I wouldn’t have to speak of her.”

“You are _nothing_ like Elia was,” Oberyn snaps, closing the distance between them. “You are too wild, too vindictive. Too _Stark._ ”

“I never said I was like her,” Lyarra murmurs, guilt creeping in to her bones. “Just that you compare me to her. I know what you see, Oberyn. I know what you think, when you look at me.”

“And you cannot read minds…”

“… poor little Lyarra Snow,” She continues, “raped, beaten and chained, just like Elia was. All I need is a Targaryen for a husband, and I shall be set.”

His hands are at her shoulders then, his nails digging into her skin. “Do not say her name.”

“Then keep Robbs out of yours,” Lyarra hisses, shaking him off.

Oberyn stares at her, fury dancing in his eyes, like stars in the night sky. She would think it beautiful if she wasn’t so incensed. He shakes his head, a breathy laugh escaping him. “You infuriate me.”

“Good,” Lyarra snaps sullenly.

Oberyn throws his head back, and lets out a laugh. She wants to be cross with him, but Oberyn Martell knew how to win a woman with just one look. He struggled enough to win her favour, but she could never reject the warmth of his laugh. It reminds her of Rickon and Bran; too young, too innocent. They laughed all the same when they were playing, unburdened by the ways of this world.

When Oberyn laughs, he too seems free. It is a masquerade if she has ever seen one – and a good one at that. For Lyarra Snow knows that Oberyn Martell is burdened more than any other man, his life a waking dream of his sister’s final moments. “You make it very hard for me to save you, do you know that?”

“I never asked to be saved.”

He sighs. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re stupid,” Lyarra slings back, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I will not argue with that, Princess.”

“And _stop_ calling me that,” Lyarra sneers. “I am barely even a Lady! I am a bastard. A Snow. _Illegitimate_. Just call me by my name, and be done with it.”

Oberyn looks as if he’s been punched. “You say bastard as if it’s a bad thing.”

“Where you’re from, it might be accepted,” Lyarra begins, “but in the North, being a bastard is not easy.”

“Shame,” Oberyn murmurs. “The Dornish do not punish children for the mistakes of their parents.” Lyarra looks away, the word mistake ringing in her ears. “And in any case, it does not matter to me what name you carry. Your father may have named you Snow, but it does not make you one.”

Lyarra scoffs. “If it looks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck…”

“You don’t quack,” Oberyn says, his hand coming to push her hair off her shoulders, revealing her bruised flesh. “You roar.”

Lyarra blushes beneath his gaze, unable to control herself. It is an uncomfortable place, to be in his line of sight. Oberyn Martell is known for his ways and he does not disappoint when it comes to her. He does not simply look at her; he feasts his eyes on every feature, going over it again and again.

“You’re so like her,” Oberyn whispers, his hands coming graze her face. Horror dawns on him then, as he says, “and so like him.”

“You knew Ashara, didn’t you?” Lyarra asks, unable to help herself. She thinks of the woman in the tower, purpled eyed and brown haired and lovely. _She threw herself into an ocean to escape the grief of an empty cradle._

Oberyn lets out a chortle. “Ashara Dayne had eyes of violet, and a smile men killed for. You look nothing like her.”

“I take after my father.”

Oberyn nods, looking sick. “Yes… yes, you do.”

* * *

The night before the Kings wedding, she dreams of the Riverlands.

Vibrant, and beautiful, she can see the vast green fields and the dark forests. She can see the rushing rapids of the river, and the moors she had once stood upon. In the dark, elk and rabbits alike graze freely on the grass, undisturbed. While there may be peace, a chill pierces the air – the wind carrying its own bite.

On the river bank, she can see two men walking. One, with hair of red; the other, a black fish.

She sprints to catch up to them, desperate to catch their attention, before a scent hits her nose. In an instant, she’s running in the other direction, chasing something, _anything._

When she grabs the rabbit, it lets out a squeal; her teeth sinking into its flesh, and filling her mouth with blood.

In her dream, she can almost imagine it to be Joffrey Lannister.

In her dreams, she can almost hear his screams.

* * *

The gown is tight at her skin.

Tywin has forced her into to a red monstrosity; _the colour of my house,_ he had said. It dips low at her chest and reveals too much, but not even she can deny the beauty of the scarlet silk embroidered with golden thread. On the bodice, a lion roars stagnant, trapped in his fury as she is trapped in hers.

It is beautiful, and finer than anything she has ever owned, but she knows what language the dress speaks. It speaks of concubines and paramours, of whores and mistresses. She hates it.

It doesn’t seem to matter, however. The Lannisters roar loud, and the rest of Westeros can do nothing but listen.  

She hates that even more.

Lyarra is not invited to the Sept of Baelor, but she hadn’t expected to be. She was more than happy to wait in the Godswood for the Hand to retrieve her, spending her time on her knees and her mind with the Gods. _Bring me a saviour,_ she thinks, _or send me a blade._

“Good,” Tywin says when he sees her, kneeling and draped in finery. “I think this will be to the Kings liking.”

She knows why; her tits have been forced to her neck, and her waist could be measured by her hand. She looks beautiful, exotic, even. Her reflection had been a lie, a woman she had never seen before. A woman with dark hooded eyes, and ruby stained lips. It was all an illusion created by the handmaidens Tywin paid, but she could not tear her eyes from the mirror when she had first seen herself.

 _I am dressed as one of his whores,_ she thinks, fingering her thin silks with petulance, _mayhaps they shall spread my legs and eat me for dessert. If I am lucky, they shall use a knife._

Lyarra sits with the jesters, and knights. She expected no place of honour, for she was simply a bastard dressed up as a whore. The men don’t seem to care who she is, or who she belongs to. They leer and lust, staring at her like the boar they tear into when the food is served. _Of course Joffrey Lannister would seek boar served at his wedding feast,_ she thinks, _only he would be so monstrous as to parade his father’s downfall for all to see._

She imagines the men before her on the battlefield, dressed in their ridiculous garb. Ghost would be by her side, and blood would run thicker than any river. _Leer at me now,_ she would say, _and you will meet my blade._

Lyarra turns her attention to the dais above them. Joffrey is spitting wine with his laughter, and Queen Margaery looks like a doll, dressed up with a crown in her chestnut hair and a smile on her face. If she wasn’t married to the most atrocious man in Westeros, Lyarra would think her beautiful.

Her eyes soon find Oberyn.

He has not spoken to her since that day in the Godswood, the pain of their words still fresh. Lyarra feels guilty for most of it; the rest, he deserved. She finds him staring back at her, his eyes burning in that way she has become accustomed to. Almost as suddenly, he is pushing away from the table – his paramour on his arm, and a smile on his face.

“You are too beautiful to be sat with the jesters,” Oberyn whispers from behind her, his paramour nowhere to be seen.

“And you are just as lustful,” Lyarra murmurs, not wanting to be seen talking to Oberyn. Tywin wouldn’t hesitate to punish her. “Shouldn’t you be sitting with your King?”

“My King is across the sea,” Oberyn murmurs, his eyes going to the dais. “That boy up there is no King for Dorne.”

Lyarra turns in her seat, gaping at him. “Watch your tongue. You’ll be killed.”

“Aye,” Oberyn whispers, “I would be so lucky.” Oberyn squeezes her hand, before standing. “I shall see you soon. Enjoy the feast, Princess.”

“I’m no Princess,” is all she says, muttering beneath her breath as she watches him walk away.

Hours seem to pass as she watches the feast unfold, wishing she could stash the butter knife she had been given into her dress. But her corset is too tight, and Ser Tytus is watching guard. He may be kind, but he is not above hurting her. That she is sure.

Laughter sounds through the courtyard as the King cuts into his pie, and Lyarra feels a warmth at her side. Looking up, Ser Tytus meets her eyes – his gloved hand coming to pull at her arm.

“Shouldn’t you be protecting your Lord?” She asks, spite infiltrating his tone.

“Not now,” He murmurs, pulling her out of her seat as screams begin to sound. “Come.”

Lyarra turns her attention back to the dais in time to see Joffrey stumble. She is being pulled away, her feet tripping over themselves as she watches the scene unfold.  The King is clawing at his throat, his skin turning purple with each passing second.

And then Cersei Lannister screams.

Chaos erupts, but Ser Tytus does not stop. “Stop, Ser Tytus, stop!”

Ser Tytus ignores her, pulling her down the stairs and tight to his chest. His golden armour scratches at her face, and his arms hook beneath hers to carry her.  

“We need to leave,” He hisses, his lips at her ear and his feet moving fast. “I will not let you die in King's Landing.”

He pulls her again, and they are sprinting – racing for a ship she has never seen.

Her feet sting, and her lungs feel like they are going to collapse, but it matters not when they arrive at the jagged edges of the rocks. Wincing, Lyarra ditches her shoes quickly – ignoring how the earth draws blood from her soles. Through a cave hidden beneath overgrown vines, a small row boat can be seen.

Ser Tytus pushes her in, his cheeks red and his brown hair in disarray. She has never seen a knight of his standing seem so flustered, but Ser Tytus looks to be on the verge of a nervous collapse.

“What are you doing?” She finally demands, her palms digging into the wood of the boat. “Where are you taking me?”

“To safety,” He says, rowing away from the rocks.  

They are rowing for what seems like miles when she spots a ship through the fog. Gasping, Lyarra looks to Ser Tytus in disbelief.

“Safety?” She chokes, her limbs trembling as her lungs quiver.

Ser Tytus knocks on the ship, and a ladder is thrown down. “After you, _Lady_ Lyarra.” The man says her name with such spite that she thinks he will drown her. “Hurry. We don’t have time.”

Gripping the rope, Lyarra climbs the ladder – a hand coming out to pull her on the deck.

Copper skin meets her eyes, and a familiar smile.

“Oberyn?” She whispers, watching as the sails drop.

She is in his arms before she can stop it, her nose burning with the scent of spices and wild flowers. Confusion courses through her, spitting for answers.

Ser Tytus climbs behind her, his Lannister armour clanking heavy against the deck. “Where is she?”

Prince Oberyn tuts. “Below deck, Ser Tytus. As promised – and as paid.”

Ser Tytus levels him with the dirtiest look he can manage, before thundering down the stairs. “Dyanna!” He shouts, desperation infiltrating his voice.

“Dyanna is his wife’s name,” Lyarra recalls, meeting Oberyn's eyes. “What have you done?”

“What I had to,” Oberyn murmurs, tightening his hold around her, “to keep you safe.”

“All this better be worth it,” A woman says from her side. She is beautiful, but of course Oberyn’s paramour would be. “He’s given up justice for you, Princess. You best be grateful.”

She’s still panting as she says, “I don’t understand.”

“You will,” The woman says, her hand coming to rest on her arm, “in time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thank you all for your comments and kudos on the last chapter! I'm glad the Robb/Lyarra ship is sailing strong. 
> 
> I am severely disappointed by the latest GOT episode and am starting to think this show is heading down the Lost route. Lucky we have fanfiction, hey? (Also Arya is epic and I am IN LOVE with her character. Also stan my Queen Sansa, the realest bitch Westeros ever did see. This is a no Sansa hate space.) 
> 
> To add to that, if any of you have read my other stories, you will know I'm not the BIGGEST Dany fan. I don't mind her, but she's not my fave. But even me, a non fan of Dany, thinks the writers are fucking with her character. Seems like a cop out to me. 
> 
> A lot of you were very wary about Oberyn/Lyarra so we'll see how these next few chapters play out. Please be aware that this is the only chapter in this story that there will be descriptions of rape. 
> 
> Song recommendations for this chapter: 
> 
> It's not Living (if it's not with you) by the 1975  
> The Night King by Ramin Djawadi.  
> when the party's over by Billie Eilish  
> Clair De Lune by Debussy


	4. The Vipers Nest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of dumps so dull and heavy.  
> The fraud of men was ever so,  
> Since summer first was leavy.
> 
> \--- William Shakespeare, 'Much Ado About Nothing'

Dorne is insufferably hot.

Lyarra felt the heat on the ship, but at least there the wind had masked some of the mercury. As soon as she steps on to land, it hits her – the sun beating down with a cruelty she has never felt. Sweat gathers in beads at her neck, and falls down her body, distracting her from the beauty of the Water Gardens. In that moment, she wishes to be with Ser Tytus and Dyanna - on a ship destined for the free cities.

“It is different from the North,” Oberyn tells her as he leads her inside, “but it is just as harsh.”

Lyarra turns to look at him, this saviour she never expected. His hair is pushed back off his face, his widow peak obvious in the summer sun. She wants to tell him that nothing is as harsh as the North, that no land could compare to it’s cruelty. For the North was where winter bloomed, and winter is as feared as the Stranger itself.

She keeps silent, instead surveying the beauty of the Water Gardens. Harsh, she wonders, _not so much_. But she doesn’t say so, not when she is presented before the Prince of Dorne.

If fury was a man, Doran Martell would be a weak excuse. He is bound to a chair and he looks withered by time. It seems the grief of his family's troubles had weighed heavily on the Dornish Prince, his skin sagging and his eyes dim with sickness. Despite his pallor, there is rage to be found – burning just as bright as any Dornish star.

“You have endangered us all,” The Prince spits, glaring at his brother. Even with such fury, Prince Doran does not so much as make his brother flinch. Instead, Oberyn presents him with a smile of honeyed sweetness, taunting his brother with his explanations.

“I did it for Elia.”

“Elia is dead and buried,” Doran sneers. “She has been for nigh on sixteen years. It is time to let her rest, brother. It is time to stop this.”

The ease Oberyn had displayed mere moments prior drips from his face as his brothers anger continues to rage. Stepping forward, Oberyn tugs at her hand - urging her to step closer to the withered Prince.

“Look into her eyes, brother,” Oberyn pleads. “Surely, you see it too. Look, and you will see him.”

Prince Doran barely pays her any attention, instead raging at his brother and gripping at the arms of his chair. “I need not see Eddard Stark.”

Oberyn turns her then, so she is facing Doran. His arms feel hot against her clammy skin, but his touch is as gentle as ever. “Look, Doran. Truly look at her.”

Lyarra can feel the gaze of Doran Martell, like she felt the heat outside. Penetrating, just like the sun.

“What am I looking for, Oberyn?” Doran drawls. “If you have dragged her here to show me her resemblance to Lyanna Stark, you’d best be returning to King's Landing. I can find such a resemblance in any brothel in Old Town, I’m sure.”

“Her face may be Stark,” Oberyn says, “but her eyes? They are his.”

Lyarra looks up, confused. Her eyes belonged to Ashara Dayne, a corpse washed away by the waves of the summer sea, not her father. Eddard Starks grey gaze belonged to Arya, and Arya alone – the only child of his to carry on that particular Stark trait. And Arya was gone, fled from Kings Landing the day her father's head was taken.

Oberyn lets out a sigh of frustration, pushing his hair out of his face. “Doran, remember Elia’s wedding. Remember what she said about his eyes?”

Doran leans forward, blinking, before disbelief consumes his face. “It cannot be…”

“Why not?” Oberyn asks. “We know the story, don’t we? Lyanna was taken to Dorne, and hidden here by Rhaegar. That’s where Ned Stark found her body. And when he returned her to Winterfell, he brought with him a babe.”

Lyarra can feel her heart thundering in her chest, like a stampede of wild horses. The force of it sounds in her ears, foreboding for words she does not want to hear.

“Ashara Daynes babe,” Doran snaps. “It is known.”

Oberyn laughs loudly, the sound mocking. “Ashara Dayne did not have the look of pure contempt that this one does.”

Doran is not amused. “She may have inherited that from the Starks.”

“Why, then, does she not have a Dayne nose?” Oberyn asks. “I looked upon Ashara’s face enough to know what it looked like, Doran.” He sounds tortured when he says, “I looked upon Arthur's face enough to know what it looked like.”

Lyarra watches in confusion, wanting nothing more than answers. It is the first time she feels as if she is going to be told the truth. Standing on a precipice, Lyarra wonders if this is what her father was meaning to tell her, when he promised her an explanation.

 _We shall talk about your mother,_ he had said, as he left her in Storm’s End to rot.

And then he died.

“We all know how much you looked upon Arthur's face, brother,” Doran sneers, the insinuation clear. Lyarra has the decency to look down at her feet, her cheeks burning. She doesn’t want to see the pain on Oberyn's face, nor does she want to give Doran the victory of seeing her squirm.

“This isn’t the time for bigotry.” Oberyn crosses to where his brother sits, afflicted by gout. Lyarra had smelt it the moment they had walked in the room. “Would you deny this, brother? Will you look at her, and call her a Snow for all to see? Will you deny this of our blood?”

“Oberyn, what are you talking about?” Lyarra asks, panicked. She cannot stop the questions, the confusion. They were speaking about her biggest concern, her biggest trauma, and yet they were ignoring her.

“Quiet,” Oberyn snaps, turning back to Doran. “You cannot deny this, brother. Denying this would be paramount to siding with the Lannisters.”

Doran is quiet for a moment, before he beckons her closer. His hands are on her chin as soon as she stumbles forward, his black eyes glaring into hers. She swallows as she stares into onyx eyes, the same as his younger brother. Rosemary burns her nose as his breath blooms over her face, his teeth rotting within his mouth. _Pr_ _ince of Dorne he may be, but strong he is not._

“Dragon,” Doran whispers, shaking his head.

Lyarra snaps back, shock smacking her in the face like one of the white cloaks. “What?” She steps back, heart racing, mind vacant.

They still ignore her.

“She’s been kept a secret for sixteen years,” Doran whispers. “The Lannisters held her, and knew nothing.”

Oberyn is smiling. “And now we have her, brother.” His hands are on her shoulders, dismissive. She shakes him off, horror coursing through her veins. _Dragon,_ her mind screams, again and again. “Are you still going to force me to send her back?”

“Not now,” Doran responds, voice horse.

Panic is building in Lyarra’s chest; threatening to spill over. “I don’t understand.”

Oberyn glances her way. “But you shall, Princess.”

“Stop calling me that,” she grits out, her hands coming to her head. _Princess, Princess, Princess;_ **_dragon, dragon, dragon._ **

The panic begins to tip sideways, like a pot of molten, before pouring hot and fast through her veins. It is the same horror she has felt on the battlefield, as she took lives and fought for her king. It is the same horror she felt when Tywin Lannister crawled on top of the featherbed, and took what he thought belonged to him.

“But it is what you are,” Doran murmurs. “The last Targaryen Princess.”

Her breath escapes her, her lungs expelling it. She can feel the horror dawning over her face, the tears spilling over her cheeks. _Dragon, dragon, dragon,_ her mind sings, while her heart screams _wolf, wolf, wolf._

Her years of ignorance, her many pleas for the truth, answered with four little words.

She wants to wretch, and scream at the same time.

“Liar.” Lyarra pushes away from both of them, turning around. “You’re lying.”

“We did not lie to you,” Oberyn says from behind her. “Your Uncle, on the other hand, has lied for sixteen years.”

It takes a moment for Lyarra  to realise he is speaking about her father.

Lyarra turns on her heel, her chest exploding with the fury of the seven hells. As quickly as the words had left Oberyn's mouth, Lyarra is pushing him over, swinging her fists in his face. Oberyn may be the red viper, but he is no match for her in that moment; or maybe he doesn’t want to be.

She slams her fists into his flesh, again and again. Blood meets her knuckles and Lyarra can hear shouts explode from behind her. _Let them shout and scream,_ she thinks, _for my father is no liar._

It is one of the guards that peels her off him, his face bleeding, and her knuckles too. But the pain in her hands is nothing compared to the grief that falls over her, eclipsing all else. Her heart beats to the tune of her grief, stuttering with every breath and threatening to give out at any moment.

“You’re a liar!” Lyarra screams as she’s thrown to the floor, her hands quivering, and her chest becoming overwhelmed by sobs.

Lyarra knew who she was. She had always known who she was. A bastard, a Snow, a shame upon her father's House. She had grown used to the slurs, to the fate of an illegitimate child. Lady Catelyn wouldn’t allow her to forget such a truth and in the years she had spent at Winterfell, she had always known her place.

Yet in a palace in the South, surrounded by copper skinned men and Princes of House Martell, everything she knew was being taken from her. Her surname, her father, her trust. _It can’t be true,_ she thinks, swallowing her sorrow and pushing away the grief. _My father was no liar._

 _Uncle,_ a voice corrects.

She can feel herself retching then.

 _Lyanna and Rhaegar,_ the voice says, ringing through her ears. Her questions, answered. And yet how she wishes for ignorance again.

“I wish I was, Princess,” Oberyn says, wiping the blood from his face. “But I knew it the moment I saw you.”

Someone comes to hold her as she begins to scream; and with that, she feels Lyarra Snow dying.

* * *

The nightmares come every night.

And every night, it is the same terror. The grey eyes of Eddard Stark, the indigo eyes of Rhaegar Targaryen, and blood.

“ _Lyanna,_ ” He whispers, his finger coming up scarlet.

And then she wakes.

The dead seem to haunt her like never before. Beneath her eyelids, they wait, calling her name. Her father – _uncle_ – is there always. Walking beside her, in the glass gardens, in that forsaken tower, he is there. He says her name, he holds her hand, and in the end, all she can hear are the screeches of dragons thought dead.

Lyarra does not stop weeping for days.

At first, she had been convinced Oberyn was lying. He need only tell her the story of Howland Reed, and the North.

“I met him there, Lyarra,” Oberyn murmurs over untouched dinner. “He told me what happened that day.”

She pushes away from the table, fleeing to her chambers.

They send Elia Sand to be her friend.

It is after a moon locked in her rooms, her tears run dry, and her voice closed off. Her grief is like the ocean at Storm’s End - vengeful, and violent. Like the seas, her grief too would sink ships and claim men; and she feels herself drowning. Water fills her lungs, as it fills her eyes. _Lies,_ her grief whispers, _you’re grieving for lies._

Lyarra yearns for Storm’s End then, and the ignorance she once held. She yearns for Loras and his gentle words; Renly, and his quick quips. She even yearns for the sight of Robert Baratheon, as large as a wheelhouse and as intolerable as grey scale. But mostly, she yearns for the knowledge of who she was, a bastard from the North, born of a union that shamed Eddard Stark.

Lyarra knows the Dornish are concerned. Oberyn has been in her rooms every day, beseeching her to speak. But every time she opens her mouth, nothing but dry sobs leave her lips. Her tears left her a sennight before; now, there is nothing left but sorrow and fury.

All she can think, all she can see, is her father's face. _Uncle, uncle, uncle,_ her mind corrects itself, quick enough to make her feel ill. Beneath her eyelids, she sees his eyes. _Lyarra,_ he says in her dreams, _you are more Stark than us all._

But he had been lying for so long.

Every word, every promise, it was all a lie. Every time Snow left her fathers lips, he was thinking Targaryen. Every time he promised to tell her of her mother, he wasn’t thinking of Ashara Dayne. Instead, he thought of Lyanna Stark - a woman who gave him a shame to carry before bleeding out in a Dornish featherbed.

The thought is enough to turn her stomach. Mayhaps that is why her gowns no longer fit.

Elia Sand reminds her of Arya.

The girl is two years younger than her, and peppers her with questions about the North, and the war. She is excitable, and young, and filled with the ignorance Lyarra mourns for. Sometimes, when Elia thinks her distracted, she will gaze at Lyarra curiously. She will look at her breeches, to her scars, to her eyes, all with the same type of wonder.

 _Don’t envy me, Elia,_ she wishes to say, _I am nothing but a broken bastard, born of lies and deceit._

“I heard the Lannisters have stopped looking for you,” Elia says one day, as Lyarra stares out at the sea. It is particularly vicious today, as if the sea too can feel her anger. “Mama says it’s because they’re lazy, but I think it’s because they’re too busy trying to convict Lord Tyrion now.”

Lyarra closes her eyes. She does not want to talk about the Lannisters. She does not want to talk about Kings Landing. She does not want to talk, at all.

“Obara says Lord Tywin was wroth when he realised you were missing.” Elia laughs. “It's all the talk of King’s Landing. After all, they do think you killed their King.”

Lyarra stands, pushing out of her rooms. She cannot listen to her any longer.  The droning grates on her skin, like a buzzing in her ear.

As soon as she enters the gardens, the heat bares down on her, a reminder of where she is. Dorne has promised nothing but heartache and sorrow. _I hate it._ She hates the heat, she hates the sand, she hates the water. Her body is made for winter snows, and harsh winds – not summer sun and desert sands. But if there is one place she can tolerate, it’s the gardens.

Dipping her feet into one of the pools, Lyarra leans her head back, closing her eyes. She can feel the sun burning her skin as she sits, but she cares nothing for it. All she can think is of her father, and Robb. She visualises him, as best as her memory allows and tries to bask in the image of Tully eyes and hair of red.

It seems her thoughts have belonged to him solely this past moon. Lyarra does not let her mind go to thoughts of Targaryen princes, and winter roses. It cannot.

There is a mirage over the water when she finally reopens her eyes. Two figures are walking in the shimmering distance, one dark and tall, the other, fair and small. The hole in her chest, which seems insistent in its efforts to remind her of that day in the throne room in the Water Gardens, flares up. She’s seeing ghosts now and she will do anything to avoid them.

The water splashes as Lyarra makes her escape, running back to her rooms. Warmth crawls over her skin as she enters the keep, wiping her face away of any last sweat. When she finally returns to her chambers, she can feel her lungs begin to work again. Logic tells her Princess Myrcella is in Sunspear, but there is no place for logic here. She was sure she had seen her in the gardens, but it was all an image of her mind - a lie, like everything else.

“Elia says you left your chambers today,” Oberyn says later, when they dine.

Lyarra still doesn’t know why he eats with her every night. She suspects it has something to do with guilt.

“It’s a good thing, Lyarra.” He stopped calling her Princess that day in the throne room. “I don’t want to see you kept in this keep like a prisoner. It’s much better out there – in the sun, in the gardens.” His fork scrapes against his plate, before he sighs and looks to her. “You’re free to roam here, Lyarra. Doran has sent most of the people away – including Myrcella and Trystane. The people here now are here because they can be trusted.”

Lyarra blinks up at the ceiling, her cheeks burning. She suddenly hates her handmaiden for telling Oberyn of the nonsense she had been spewing when she entered her chambers this afternoon. Her moment of insanity is enough to cause humiliation, but she does not feel it as she once would.

“I just hate to see you lock yourself away,” Oberyn murmurs, “hiding from everyone-”

“I’m not hiding,” Lyarra snaps, using her voice for the first time in weeks.

Surprise brightens Oberyn's dark eyes, before they become muted again. She can only assume he doesn’t want to scare her back into silence. “If you say so.”

It becomes easier, after that.

Her period of mourning seems to near its end, and she begins to eat more regularly. The nightmares that plague her, of bloodied towers and indigo eyes, remain.

She still feels sick at the thought of her apparent parentage.

She still feels sick at the thought of Eddard Stark.

“You would look much healthier if you smiled,” Princess Arianne quips one day, squinting up at the sun.

She has come down from Sunspear, eager to see the girl her father now protects. Everyone that asked had been told she was a Dayne bastard, but those who knew were enthralled with the knowledge kept secret for so long. They fight for a glance at her, this dragon Princess no one knew existed. She wants to shun them all and stay locked in her rooms. But she fears Oberyn will drag her, kicking and screaming, if she continues to bar the door.

“I do not wish to look healthy,” Lyarra retorts back, a tad childish. She is becoming petulant in this place. “I do not like Dorne.”

“Tough shit,” Arianne says. Lyarra won’t admit it, but she likes the copper skinned Princess. Arianne doesn’t pity her, not like the others. “You don’t need to like it. We’re just hiding you until you prove yourself useful.”

“I’m still a bastard,” Lyarra mutters. “A bastard can’t be useful.”

“Don’t say that to my cousins,” Arianne murmurs, “or they’ll string you from the walls. Well, they might have their way with you first.”

Lyarra’s cheeks flush.

“Oh, don’t be a prude, Lyarra,” Arianna says, throwing a stone into the water. “We have all heard the gossip.”

“I didn’t think you were one to believe rumours.”

“I’m not, usually,” Arianne agrees, before backtracking. “Tell me, was your cousin as good in bed as he was on the battlefield? I’d have thought so, but sometimes, warriors can prove … disappointing.”

Lyarra is as red as the Dornish sands. “Gods.”  

“It’s always the same with you Northerners,” Arianne complains. “Always so prudish, as if you were all born Septas. It’s comical, really. I don’t see the issue in talking about what happens in the bedchamber, nor does anyone here. We don’t punish humanity in Dorne, like you Northerners do with your forced celibacy and celebrated chastity. Truly, it’s a bore.”

Lyarra purses her lips. “I didn’t realise you had been North.”

“Everything above us is North, Lyarra.” Arianne laughs, fisting her skirts in her hands. “Has my father spoken to you about your Aunt yet?”

Lyarra blanches, the name _Lyanna_ on her tongue, before she realises that’s not who Arianne is talking about. “No. Oberyn says he is waiting until I feel better.”

“Or until your sanity has returned,” Arianne quips.

“That too.”

“He is a fool to wait,” Arianne murmurs. “Daenerys Targaryen has three dragons, and an army at her back. It’s only a matter of time before she crosses the sea, and when that time comes, we must be her ally.”

“And that’s when I’ll prove useful?”

Arianne is blunt when she says, “Of course. Daenerys Targaryen believes herself to be the last dragon. She will want her family close.”

_But I am not her family._

Doran Martell looks at her with pity when she is brought before him again. _My grief was as vibrant as the Dornish sun when he last saw me,_ she thinks, _he shall be disappointed to see it so dull now._

“Lyarra Snow,” He acknowledges. “Are you well?”

Her smile is a lie, but it is easier than telling the truth.

“I’ve been worse, my Prince,” Lyarra murmurs, sitting down at the table. Oberyn gives her an encouraging smile, but there is something else there, something else beneath it. It reminds her of their time in the Godswood in King's Landing, of desperate touches and spoken riddles.

They discuss the future, and her blood. Oberyn snaps at her when she calls herself a Snow. “The blood of a dragon cannot be underestimated, my lady. You do yourself a disservice to think your bastardry will matter.”

“I am what I am, Prince Oberyn,” Lyarra murmurs. “I do not suffer from delusions about blood and titles.”

Doran waves his hand in dismissal. “Enough bickering. We must talk about important matters.”

Their plan is simple: when the time comes, Daenerys Targaryen must be allied to House Martell. Dorne shall be safer, they argue, if the dragons do not burn them first.

“And I am your way to get that assurance?” Lyarra asks, incredulous. “Forgive me, but what if she thinks me a threat?”

“You are still a bastard, by the laws of the land,” Doran explains. “She still has the right to the throne she so covets.”

Lyarra looks pointedly at Oberyn for his comments earlier. “It looks like being a bastard does matter, my Prince.” Oberyn shrugs, not bothering to answer her. “I don’t want it in any case. It’s an empty throne to an empty land. I would rather break it into pieces than sit on it.”

“Dangerous thoughts,” Oberyn murmurs, his hand coming to rest on her knee, “for a dangerous woman.”

His eyes shine beneath the light of the candles, burning just as they are. Lyarra ignores him, turning back to Doran. “And then what, my lord? You think this Queen, this girl, will want to ally with the family of a wronged Princess? She may be wary of it.”

“Not if she marries Quentyn,” Doran murmurs. “A betrothal will soothe her worries, and ours.”

“You want Quentyn as a consort?”

“As a King.”

Lyarra laughs, incredulous. “She will have suitors at every corner.”

“But she will need support in Westeros to claim the throne,” Oberyn explains. “Three dragons can burn cities, but the people will not love a stranger.”

“They needn’t love her.” Lyarra takes a sip of her wine. “They didn’t love Joffrey; they didn’t love Aerys.”

“But they loved Robert,” Doran says, “and he claimed the throne, lawfully. The small folk won’t accept a dragon again, unless she comes with a Westerosi.”

“Which, naturally, will be your son.” Lyarra wants to throttle them both. “What is it about the iron throne that appeals to you so? Your sister was slaughtered because of it…”

“My sister was slaughtered because of her husband’s oversights,” Doran explains, “not the throne.”

“Your sister was split open because Tywin Lannister thought to sack King’s Landing,” Lyarra snaps. “He did so in the name of Robert Baratheon, or moreso in the name of ambition. Or have you two forgotten that?”

“Enough,” Oberyn sneers. “You may be comfortable here, but we are still Princes of Dorne. Remember that.”

“I never forget.”  _Bastards never forget who they are_ , she thinks. _No one will let them_. “Tell me, my Prince, how many people will die because of this plan of yours? How many men will you lose? How many women? How many children will be left orphans?”

“War takes as it pleases,” Doran says. “We accept that.”

“But is it worth it?” Lyarra asks, pushing away from the table. “For that throne, for the title? It’s just a chair. How many more will have to die to sit upon it?”

“It is not just a chair…”

“Of course it is!” Lyarra snaps. “And yet we tear ourselves apart over it. Let the Lannisters have their throne. Let them go to war for it. It is not worth it, Prince Doran.” She lets her chest heave for a moment, before she realises what she must do. “Let me write to Robb. Let me tell him of your plight; he’ll ally with you.”

“No,” Doran rejects quickly, with a glance to Oberyn. “The King in the North will remain where he is - close to the wall, and far from us.”

“He thinks I’m dead,” Lyarra scoffs, “or missing. Let me write him – let me ask him for help.”

“Dorne does not accept help from a boy made King.” Doran is unwavering in his contempt. “This land is one of seven kingdoms, not six.”

She tries again. “Robb will give you the help you wish. It may see less Dornish die…”

Doran cuts her off, “These are not games for bastards.”

“On the contrary,” Lyarra murmurs, “these games were made for them.”

It is quiet in her chambers.

“Doran will not forget that any time soon.”

Lyarra closes her eyes, inhaling deeply. “Leave, Oberyn.”

He sidles up beside her, his dark eyes narrowing. “He does not need to be lectured by a girl.”

“Or a bastard?” Lyarra asks, peeling her eyes open. “It is easy for a Prince to preach about equality when they needn’t have it. You lecture about my name and what little it matters, when really, it does.”

“Lya...”

“You heard your brother.” Lyarra scowls, turning to face the view of the gardens. “These games are not made for bastards. In fact, if Doran had his way, these games would not involve women, either.”

“You’re being unfair,” Oberyn murmurs. “Dorne is not like the rest of Westeros. We value the opposite sex for more than their ability to give life, Princess.”

 _Lies,_ she wants to say. _Dorne is not that different._

“Don’t’ call me that,” Lyarra snaps, glaring up at him. The word is an insult to her father: _uncle,_ a voice corrects. She hates that damn voice. “I am not a Princess.”

His hand comes to her bare shoulder, fiddling with the straps of her gown. “I disagree.” His breath is on her neck as he moves to her other side. “The daughter of a dragon could be nothing less.”

“The _bastard_ daughter,” Lyarra says, meeting his gaze. It is burning. “You like to forget that.”

“How can I?” Oberyn breathes, his hand coming to cup her cheek. “You seem intent to remind me.”

His breath smells of peppermint, and his eyes burn for her.

Lyarra takes a step back, pulling his hand from her face. _Robb_ , she thinks, the name an echo in her psyche. She can see his face, his eyes,  _his_ lust.

She looks away from Oberyn, feeling the unmistakable heaviness that comes with want. Uncurling and tight, it coils deep within her gut before exploding. But what she feels is nothing compared to Oberyn. He looks at her like she is Nymeria's star, bright and burning across the night’s sky.

She hates it.

“In any case,” Lyarra says, trying to distract herself, “Doran does not care what I think. He shall forge ahead, even if it is stupid.”  

“You think him stupid?”

“I think ambition is stupid.” Lyarra looks to him. “Ambition killed my father.”

“Honour killed your father,” Oberyn says sadly. “And misplaced faith. Your father was a good man, a great warrior, but he placed his faith in the wrong people.”

“The wrong people,” Lyarra echoes, a bitter laugh escaping her. “He was Roberts friend and they slaughtered him for it.”

The sob bubbles up through her throat before bursting from her lips. As soon as it comes, she is in Oberyn's arms, protected from her sorrow. “Hush,” He whispers, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “You need not waste more tears on lions. They do not deserve it.”

Silence lapses between them before she whispers, “They haven’t even returned his bones yet. They cut his head from his neck, declared him a traitor, and they couldn’t even return his bones.”

Oberyn holds her as she cries, and while she may regret it later, she cannot do so now.

“Weep now,” Oberyn whispers against her head, “but tomorrow, you shall be strong.”

The promise of tomorrow lingers in the air, as do her tears.

* * *

Nymeria is hard to beat, and Tyene too; but they are nothing compared to Obara.

The eldest of the Sand Snakes circles her with a ferocity usually reserved for the animals hidden in forests. In a way, her movements remind Lyarra of Ghost, enough so that the Northern girl can feel the pain in her chest with every step she takes to defeat her.

Obara is lithe with a sword, but she likes her whip better. Lyarra soon learns that.

It takes four days before Lyarra finally has Obara on her back, their chests panting in sync. Obara looks murderous in defeat. Lyarra just looks surprised.

“Cheat!” Obara hisses, thrashing against the boot that rests on her chest.

“Liar!” Lyarra slings back, forcing her chest back down with her foot. “Admit defeat.”

Obara glowers. “Being on my ass is more admission than words.”

“I want to hear the words,” Lyarra dares, knowing now that she is just torturing her.

“You. Win.”

Obara springs up quickly, to the applause of the few spectators. She thunders off, ignoring the look of pity her father gives her – and the look of pure amusement on Elia’s face. “Oh, come on Obara! Don’t be a sore loser!”

“Elia,” Ellaria admonishes. “Leave your sister be.”

Elia rolls her eyes, calling jests at her sisters retreating form once again. Tyene and Nymeria are laughing after her, while Sarella offers them a blazing look.

“A Snake does not like to lose.” Oberyn’s voice surprises her, but she knows she shouldn’t be. Oberyn likes to dominate, _and be dominated,_ she thinks. He will not ignore an opportunity to fight her. He offers her his hand, a smile taunting her as he says, “Shall we?”

Fighting Oberyn is not like fighting his daughters.

He is precise in his movements, fuelled by control. Tyene was too vengeful, Nymeria too concentrated, and Obara too prideful. Oberyn is nothing like them, and everything like them at the same time. He lacks their faults, and owns every skill. Where she could beat them, she can’t beat him.

He is … astonishing.

And he is looking at her with want.

She dodges him as much as she can, remembering the words of Dacey Mormont in her ears. _It's like a dance,_ she says, her voice ringing through her ears. Lyarra’s heart aches for her friend, but her gut yearns for victory.

“You have pretty feet, Princess,” Oberyn whispers as his spear grazes her side. “Always moving.”

“Stop talking,” She grits out, jutting forward with her blade. She can almost hear the laughter of Jorelle Mormont in her ears. _You will never kill a bear on unsteady feet._

“I enjoy talking during a fight,” Oberyn grunts out, dodging her sword. “It seems to have a different reaction every time.”

She doesn’t expect him to throw the spear her way. She ducks, throwing off her balance and losing her sword. Oberyn swoops down, enough to grapple with her arms.

“It’s distracting,” She manages as she wraps her legs around his waist, rolling him.

“It’s meant to be,” He whispers, his eyes alight with desire. _This is not fighting,_ Lyarra thinks with disgust, _this is foreplay._

She offers him nothing but a punch to the face. It’s enough to surprise him; to loosen his vice on her wrists. Rolling off him, she grabs her sword – before going to stand. She turns her head, only to see the blade of his spear inches from her face.

Oberyn is smiling, gloating. “You think too much.”

She is panting, sweat blurring her vision. “You play to cheat.”

“I play to win.” Oberyn jerks his head. “Admit defeat.”

It’s the same words she used on Obara, and she can taste the bitterness in her mouth. “I’m already down…”

“I want to hear the words,” He murmurs, his dark eyes gleaming like dragon glass.

“You win,” Lyarra says simply, raising her eyebrows at the spear. “Can you drop the spear now?”

A grin stretches across his face, and he offers her a hand. “Fair fight, my lady Lya. You wield a sword like a …”

“A man?”

It’s his turn to glower. “A knight.”

Oberyn passes his spear to his squire, his callused hands coming to trace her arms. “You are too small to wield the blade like a man. You would be better suited to wield a bow, in all truth. You’re too light on your feet.”

“Too feminine?”

“You speak like it’s a sin to be a woman,” Oberyn murmurs, his eyes grazing over her panting chest, “when it is nothing but a virtue.”

“Be careful, my love,” Ellaria says, as she comes from behind him. In the sunlight, she looks exquisite; like a true maid of summer. Her long limbs are wrapped in myrish lace, and her smile is wide. _If Lyanna Stark had a smile that started war, then Ellaria Sand has a smile that could end one. “_ You are scaring her.”

“Lyarra knows not to be afraid,” Oberyn says, his arm wrapping around his paramour’s waist. But while her smile belongs to him, his eyes rest on her; with that same look she has been avoiding.

“I’m not…”

Ellaria brings a finger to her lips as Elia bounds over. “That was brilliant, Papa!”

“Yes?” Oberyn asks, moving away from Ellaria’s side to pull his daughter into his arms. “It was all for you, my sweet.”

Ellaria watches them with a smile, offering Lyarra a handkerchief to wipe her sweat. “You need not hesitate with Oberyn.”

Lyarra looks up, confused.

“He wants you,” Ellaria says, vocalising a fear Lyarra has ignored for moons. The anxiety of _that_ look, of those burning eyes, flares deep within her gut, escaping the cage Lyarra had shoved it into when she had first noticed it. “I can see it. The girls can see it. They know their father too well.”

“The girls?” Lyarra is gaping, her cheeks almost as red as the dornish sands. “They know?”

“They are not blind, princess.” Ellaria laughs, the sound like bells. “The little ones, Elia included, can’t see that just yet. Mayhaps they will never see it, for they love me and that blinds them.”

Lyarra can feel the guilt creeping in. She has always liked Ellaria, since the moment they met on the ship. “Ellaria, I never meant…”

“Is that an apology?” Ellaria asks, narrowing her eyes. “I haven’t’ dealt in something as common as apologies in years. You needn’t worry, Princess. I am safe in the knowledge that Oberyn loves me, as he loves our babes. He has enough space in his heart for someone else.”

Lyarra stumbles over her words.

“But don’t worry,” Ellaria murmurs, “he shall not pressure you. Oberyn likes his women dominant and willing. You shall be the one initiate.”

Lyarra snorts. “I would never.”

“Isn’t that what they all say?” Ellaria asks herself, before a sombre expression overcomes her. “I know that your heart may belong to another, Princess, but there is no shame in wanting comfort. To kiss another, to love another… it’s no betrayal. Your King shall forgive a discretion in war.”

Her heart is singing his name; a name she does not want to hear.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” She says, moving away. Ellaria grabs her arm, her lips curved upwards.

“Don’t punish yourself for feeling desire, Lyarra,” Ellaria whispers. “The Gods made our bodies for pleasure, and what an awful tragedy it would be if we wasted it.”

Lyarra storms away, her emotions at war within her. Anger meets desire, frustration meets guilt, and they battle with swords in their hands.

That night, she dreams of Winterfell.

It is different from the last time she saw it; blackened with fire and crumbling.

In her dream, she can see Robb, crown and all. He looks glorious atop his steed, but it is the woman beside him that make she stomach turn. All meek and wrong.

When she wakes, it is with tears on her cheeks.

“Nightmares again?” Oberyn asks, when he notices the purple shadows beneath her eyes when they break their fast.

She doesn’t respond.

“I had them all the time after Elia,” He supplies, as he always does. When she buries her voice deep within her, unwilling to engage, he talks for her, filling the space with unnecessary facts and anecdotes. It once annoyed her. Now, it feels more comforting than she’d like to admit. “Dreams of her screams. Dreams of her calling my name. Dreams of Rhaenys, Aegon… all of them.”

His eyes are distant as he recalls the horror from years past.

“Essence of nightshade can soothe you,” Oberyn finally says, bringing his mead to his lips. “I can get some if you wish.”

 _You only need ask,_ hangs in the air.

Lyarra looks at him, recalling what he had said the day prior. “You said it would be better to take a bow.”

Confusion coats his face.

“I want you to teach me,” Lyarra says, prompting a small smile from the man sitting opposite her.

Oberyn is a good teacher. Patient, kind, determined. Every success she has, belongs to him. She now knows why his daughters are such well worn warriors. His patience was surely used on each of them, whether sparring or in archery.

“Breathe, Princess,” Oberyn says during training one day. His hands come to her waist, his hot fingers digging into hardened flesh gone soft. “You are too tense. And you are holding back.”

Lyarra glares at him. “I know how to shoot an arrow, Oberyn.”

“Really?” He asks, cocking a brow as she releases, missing the mark. “It sure looks it.”

Lyarra curses under her breath, tempted to throw the ornate bow to the ground. She knows she is capable; she _knows_ she is an adapt warrior. And yet she had never been one for the bow, even when she spent her years at Bear Island. She was always better with a blade in her hands, the feel of steel flowing from limb to limb.

Oberyn comes to stand in front of her, onyx eyes staring into indigo. His smile is taunting, and she wants to rip it off his face. “When you shoot an arrow, you needn’t hesitate. Your target won’t be stopping for you to get your aim perfect.” He moves to her side, his breath at her ear. “Raise your arms.”

Lyarra does as he says, watching as his hands come to hers, raising her right elbow high. “Keep this above your shoulder. The weight should always be on your back.”

His hands wrap around her waist, startling her. “Release, Princess,” He whispers, his lips close to her ear.

She releases, coming inches from the target.

“Better,” He praises. “Go again.”

It takes weeks before Oberyn declares his training done. “You are a natural,” He says, offering her a bright smile, usually reserved for one of his girls. “Now, you must learn from atop a horse.”

Lyarra rolls her eyes. “Why would I need that?”

“How do you expect to ride a dragon and shoot at the same time?” Oberyn asks.

Her world stills; tilting on the word dragon. Shock meets fury. “Is that why you taught me archery? Is that why you have done all this?”

He swallows, but there is no shame. “We need to prepare for the future.”

“The future?” Lyarra echoes. “In what future will I be atop a dragon? In a future where Quentyn is King?” Lyarra throws her bow to the ground, glaring at him. “You cannot play a game with my life, Oberyn. This is not cyvasse and I am no pawn.”

She turns on her heel, storming off.

“I am only planning for what may come,” Oberyn calls after her. “The future will not wait for you, Lyarra. And when you are before a dragon, you shall thank me for teaching you this!”

She wheels around, snarling, “My future is not to be toyed with. It is _mine_. My body may belong to Tywin Lannister, my heart may belong to Robb Stark, and my present may belong to Dorne, but my future belongs to me. Not you, not Tywin, not Robb.” Her heart tears itself apart at the name. “Do you understand?”

His lip curls into a sneer. “Your body could never belong to Tywin Lannister.”

A hysterical laugh escapes her.

“Do you think I could just forget, Oberyn? Do you think the sun makes me blind to the scars that litter my body?” She tugs at her tunic, pulling it up. The large, ugly marks are there for all to see, a map of every battle she has fought.

He looks tempted to look away, but there is a resistance there.

“Do you see them, Oberyn? Each and every one was created by Tywin Lannister. After he chained me,” Oberyn flinches away, “and bed me,” he asks her to stop then, “he would usually take out his blade, and carve his knife into my skin. He made it so no one would have me without knowing who came first.”

“Your scars do not make you his.”

“No,” Lyarra agrees, forcing her tunic back down, “but they certainly don’t make me yours either.”

* * *

Oberyn sulks like a child, but she doesn't care.

Her meetings with Doran go on as usual, and Elia seems to follow her more than before.

“Papa is grouchier than usual,” Elia murmurs, cutting through the chatter of the ladies that play in the water. “Mama says it’s because he quarrelled with you.”

“Ellaria shouldn’t speak of such things,” Lyarra snipes, looking to where Ellaria is playing with Lorenza. It is with an aching heart she watches them, the little girl splashing her mother in the pools. It is easy to forget everything else and bask in the happiness that grows in Dorne. Like flowers in the spring, joy seems to blossom here.  

“She only said it because I asked.”  

“Well,” Lyarra stands, “don’t ask.”

Lyarra finds herself standing next to Arianne, who wears annoyance better than anyone she knows. For a Princess, Lyarra has never met someone so vengeful, so petulant. She may wear a crown, but Arianne Martell carries herself as Arya Stark would. The only difference is their sense of dress.  

“You look like your planning a war.”

Arianne sighs. “No war. Just vengeance.”

“Vengeance is a war in itself,” Lyarra replies, looking out over the gardens. “May I ask who is on the receiving end?”

“You may.” Lyarra glares at her and she relents. “It’s Father.”

Lyarra laughs. “Not that I’d object, but why are you seeking to get vengeance on your Father?”

“He’s annoying me,” is all she says, her tone clipped.

Lyarra knows Arianne will not tell her, so she changes subject. “Oberyn is annoying me.”

“Oberyn is more puppy than viper these days,” Arianne reflects. “He follows you around like a shadow.”

“A bad smell, more like.” Lyarra stretches her legs, dangling them over the pool of water. “I’m scared of it, Arianne.”

“Of him?” Arianne questions. “Oberyn would rather harm himself than harm a woman.”

“I know.” Her voice sounds rough, strangled. “But Ellaria said…”

“Don’t fret about what Ellaria said,” Arianne dismisses. A laugh sounds from where Ellaria stands, her fingers digging into her daughter’s side as they play. “You can always refuse him, Lyarra. Oberyn will not take an unwilling woman. Better yet, he wouldn’t get hard for one.”

Lyarra’s cheeks go up in flames.

“I have a feeling you wouldn’t refuse, though,” Arianne says, kicking her feet into the water. She turns her eyes onto the bastard Princess, an accusation in one hand and pride in the other. “You like him.”

“He’s been kind.”

“He’s besotted,” Arianne says. “Truly infatuated. I’ve only seen him this way with one woman and she’s had four children by him.”

“He would be infatuated with a rock,” Lyarra rationalises. She has seen the way Oberyn Martell acts, has heard the whispers. The walls in Dorne speak of their Princes tastes better than any gossip could, each handmaiden holding their own story – and a number of guards too. “It means nothing.”

“Mayhaps.” Arianne smiles wryly. “But it’s saved you once.”

 _My blood saved me last time,_ Lyarra wants to say.

Arianne is quiet for a moment before she murmurs, “He wants what’s best for you, Lyarra. Don’t be so quick to ignore what you feel for him.”

Lyarra’s words are quick and biting, “I don’t feel anything.”

Arianne offers her a pitiful smile, her hand coming to graze hers. “Your eyes hide nothing, Princess.”

She is bathing when the door bursts open.

“Lyarra!”

Water sloshes over the tub as Lyarra grabs a flannel to cover herself. Oberyn doesn’t seem to care for propriety, or her modesty. He bursts behind the painted screen, his face flushed, his eyes wide. If he is shocked by her nudity, he doesn’t let on. Lyarra isn’t surprised – after all, Oberyn has seen far too many nude bodies to care anymore.

Still, that doesn’t stop her embarrassment.

“What?” Lyarra asks, her hands coming to cover her nipples. “What’s wrong?”

“Prince Oberyn,” Her handmaiden cries. “This is hardly appropriate.”

“Leave us, Taia,” Lyarra orders, her eyes trapped on the letter in Oberyns hand. Taia looks between them, flustered and scandalised, before leaving the room in a huff. “You have surely lost me a handmaiden there.”

“I’ll get you a new one,” He bites back, shoving the letter towards her. “News from Kings Landing.”

Lyarra looks to the letter, unsure. “What is it?”

“Tywin is dead.”

With those words, the sky seems to crack open, expelling with it all the tension in Lyarra’s body. _Tywin is dead. Tywin is dead. Tywin is dead._ All the nightmares, all the scars, all the trauma is set alight, and burns within her at those words. He shall never harm her again. He shall never touch her again. He shall never be inside her again.

The laugh is hysterical, but she didn’t expect anything less. _Dead, dead, dead,_ it seems to sing, and she wants to dance to it’s drum.

She is out of the bathtub in an instant, her arms wrapping around the Prince who saved her and her laughter circling them. He is laughing too; relieved, she thinks. _Tywin killed Elia as well._

“It’s over,” He whispers in her ear, his hands digging into bare flesh. “All over.”

Lyarra pulls back, tasting salt on her lips. “You kept me safe,” She says, her hands coming to his cheek. “Thank you.”

She doesn’t realise she is leaning forward until she is, lips inches from his, eyes unsure, hearts pounding. They all said he would wait for her, but in this moment, where his eyes are trapped on her lips, he doesn’t wait.

He tastes like winterberries, and wine; like lemon cakes and summer. His hands tighten their hold on her waist and he presses into her, his chest against hers. She wants to fall into his embrace, and relax there like she would in the summer sea. Kissing him is easy, and she believes falling for him would be easier.

_But he is not Robb._

Lyarra pushes him away, scrambling to get behind the screen. She finds her robe, tugging it to her body, and ignoring her trembling hands.

Oberyn is quiet, and she wants to drown in the silence.

“Lya…” He whispers from the other side of the screen, his wet hand coming to rest on it. It soaks through, leaving a handprint in the intricate painting. “Lya, I shouldn’t have done that.”

He sounds tormented.

“Don’t do that again,” Lyarra whispers, although she is unsure of who she is talking to. The warmth that blooms in her chest is hard to ignore, just like the shame.

“Lyarra.” His voice shatters through her guilt. “Forgive me.”

“Forgiven,” Lyarra says, fingers touching lips. Her stomach is in knots, and her conscience is even worse. _Robb,_ it screams, reminding her of his eyes, and his lips, and his hands. But all she can feel is the calloused palms of Oberyn Martell; all she can taste is the summer wine on his breath. “Leave me.”

* * *

Tywin's death does not rid her of the nightmares. In fact, it makes them worse.

In her dreams, he leers over her; smooth hands pinching at her skin, and rancid breath making her stomach churn. Bubbling and brittle, she would wake with a layer of sweat coating her skin, and a heaving gut. And so it would go.

It is days after Tywin's death that Elia traces the shadows beneath her eyes, a sigh escaping her. “So tired.”

Lya smiles weakly, breathing deeply. The sheets smell of rosemary, and Elia is dressed in myrish lace. _My mother likes to dress me up,_ she would complain, flopping down in her yards of silk. It is days like this, where Oberyn leaves her be, and the future seems so far away, that she can relax. But is only for a little while, before the anxiety creeps back in and poisons any good thoughts she may have.

“Mama says you are still having nightmares,” Elia whispers, her fingers going from Lya’s eyes, to her cheeks. Her small hands touch the scars that litter her face, before coming to her lips. “She can hear them from her own chambers.”

Lya grabs Elia’s hand, wrapping it in her own. “And why do you care so much, hey? Are you sweet on me, El? Will you faint if I give you my favour?”

Lya is only jesting; but still, Elia’s cheeks go up in flames.

“I am **not** ,” She snaps, petulant, forcing Lyarra to remember her age. “And even if I did like women, I would _not_ be sweet on you.”

Lya sighs dramatically. “I’m wounded, really.”

“Obara says you have more poison in your tongue than Papa has on his spear,” Elia says, narrowing her eyes. “Mayhaps I should let her beat you next time. Mayhaps I shall tell her that I told you about her bad rib. Mayhaps-”

“That’s enough from you,” Lya says, jamming her fingers into Elia’s ribs. “I was as fair as the Crone in that fight.”

“But Obara doesn’t know that.”

“What Obara doesn’t know won’t kill her,” Lyarra murmurs. “Besides, your father would never believe I cheated. He saw that spar like everyone else. Even if you made up lies, he would see right through them.”

“Only because Papa is besotted.”

Lya groans. “I do not wish to speak about that.”

Elia doesn’t seem to care, though. “Papa has never lost a fight, or a woman. That’s what Mama says, at least.”

Lyarra turns away, desperately wanting this conversation to end. “Your father does not bend wills, Elia. I can say no to him if I wish.”

Elia sounds just like her cousin when she says, “You Northerners must relax.”

“You talk about your father claiming me like it’s normal; like it’s accepted.”

Elia shrugs. “We don’t care for shame in Dorne.”

“Everywhere cares for shame.”  

Doran does, that much she knows.

When she sits before him in his solar that night, Lyarra knows he is looking at her with her surname in mind. Doran may like to preach about the differences of Dorne, but when it comes to her name, he treats her as everyone else did. A bastard, she remembers Old Nan saying, is nothing but shame of men.

Lyarra had hated the old hag for saying so when she was just a girl of eight, but now, she understands. Westeros sees her plainly – judging her only by the name her father _didn’t_ give her.

“When Daenerys comes, she shall already know Quentyn. They shall be acquainted.” It goes unsaid that they haven’t heard from Quentyn in weeks.

Lyarra folds her arms across her chest, exasperated. “And what if Daenerys Targaryen doesn’t want to meet with your son? What if she turns her dragons on him and burns him to a crisp?”

“Enough.” Doran beckons his cupbearer closer, refilling his goblet. “You may have liberties in this keep, but I am still your Prince.”

“I am a Northern bastard,” Lyarra snaps. “I may be in your keep, but I am of the North. I know only one King.”

“You are of the South, actually,” Doran drawls, taking a sip. “A Sand.”

Lyarra’s cheeks burn brightly; a reminder of all she doesn’t know.

“Are you going to weaponize my birth at every chance you get, my Lord?” Lyarra finally asks, quiet. “You know it bothers me.”

“I don’t care whether it bothers you, or not,” Doran sneers. “You must get used to it. You may wear the name Snow, but by birth, you are a Sand of Dorne; a Targaryen in everything but name.”

Lyarra looks out the window, to the dry sands and blue seas. _This is not home._ “I am still a Snow.”

“Your eyes tell a different story,” Doran murmurs, before a laugh escapes him. “How Robert Baratheon did not know he was lusting after the daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen is beyond me.”

She is quiet when she says, “People see what they want to, my lord.”

“Aye,” Doran agrees. “A bastard, a ghost…” His eyes burn with unspoken words, “… a dragon.”

“Or a woman,” Oberyn murmurs from where he sits. He has been so quiet that Lyarra had nearly forgotten he was there. “You are what you make of yourself, Lyarra. My brother shall respect that.”

Doran lifts his lips in a snarl, but Lyarra pays no attention to it.

In a moment of silence, Lyarra does the one thing she can think to do: plead.

“We should write to the King in the North.”

Oberyn sighs, obviously tired. “Doran will not.”

“Don’t speak for me, brother.” Doran sighs deeply, shaking his head. “Do you know why I will not contact your cousin?”

Her heart aches at the thought.

“Pride?” Lyarra asks, trying to keep the bitterness from her tone. “Or is it ambition?”

“You may think you know why I am doing this,” Doran begins, “but you know nothing. Dorne was never meant to be a forgotten land; a place snubbed by our King. Before Elia was murdered, Dorne was respected, adored, _revered._ It is nothing more than a joke now; the place of a deposed Princess. Dorne shall not ask the birth place of Lyanna Stark for help.”

“But it will ask for mine?” Lyarra murmurs, her hand clenching at her skirts.

Doran laughs, “You are of Dorne, my sweet. Fire fills your veins, just as ice does.”

The prince of Dorne tells them, then, what is to be done. It is all so fantastical; Quentyn was to meet with the Queen of Meereen, bend the knee, and swear allegiance.

“Why will she ever want an alliance with Dorne?” Lyarra asks. “She already has three dragons. Dorne offers her nothing.”

“Not quite,” Oberyn murmurs, his expression tormented. “We offer her family. She shall not turn you away.”

Lyarra stills, staring at Oberyn in disbelief. She has no delusions about what Daenerys Targaryen may think of her, this bastard girl her father got on his Queen of love and beauty. Lyarra knows that she will face fire, if she ever does meet with the Queen of Meereen – and yet the Dornish would have her presented as if she is some sort of family.

“You are a fool if you think she will accept me,” Lyarra says, her voice wrapped in shock. “She wouldn’t be the first Targaryen to slaughter kin,"

“You’re right,” Doran says with a nod, sipping at his wine. “Which is why you must be educated.”

“Educated?”

Doran nods. “You must learn the history of your house, Lyarra. You must learn what it means to be a Targaryen; a dragon.”

Lyarra thinks back to that day in the yard, when Oberyn claimed he was preparing her. “Unless you have a dragon, I doubt you can prepare me for anything.”

“We have something better,” Doran murmurs, his eyes dancing. “We have books.”

Oberyn finds her in her bedchambers later, his expression distraught. She has largely avoided him since their kiss, and while Oberyn maintains his distance, his eyes speak of no change.

Like the fire in the sun above, his eyes burn for her.

And in times like these, she yearns for Robb.

“It won’t work,” Lyarra says, twisting her necklace between her fingers. She is staring at the books that have been delivered, crowding her solar and her space. They remind her of the Maesters tower in Winterfell, bustling with the written word. She was only ever allowed there when injured, for she was not a boy.

Instead, Lyarra spent most of her days cooped up within the keep – learning how to stitch direwolves into gowns and how to evade Septa Mordane. When she was young, she despised her lessons, and the old Septa too. Mordane smelt of rotting apples and would hit her with a switch whenever her stitchers were askew. She hated her as a child; now, she wants nothing more than to see her again.

Even Septa Mordane would be a great sight to see, in this war of five Kings. But Lyarra knows she will never see the old Septa again. Last she heard, her head had been taken along with Eddard Starks – in a show of mercy, or so King Joffrey claimed. There is something so cruel in the thought of her Septa, old and stern, being slaughtered by men the Kingsguard. _Knights,_ she thinks bitterly, _who vowed to protect the innocence._

_Liars. They’re all liars._

“The plan has flaws,” Oberyn agrees, sensing her discomfort. “Many. My brothers knows this.”

“If he knows,” Lyarra murmurs, “why risk it? Dorne has peace. Shouldn’t that be enough?”

Oberyn steps forward, a hesitance in his gate. He looks to her hair, dark and wild, before his lips twitch. She can only imagine what he sees. Her skin has been tattooed brown from the sun, and her hair is as dark as ever, resembling the midnight sky. _Even Robb would struggle to recognise me,_ she thinks, her chest hurting a little less at the thought of him. 

“Justice is a cruel mistress,” Oberyn says. “When Elia was cut in half, and her body mutilated, even in death, Dorne was offered nothing but a coffin nailed shut. No court was called for the murder of a Princess, no man brought before the Gods. Instead, it was as if it never happened, as if _she_ never existed.”

Oberyn shakes his head, his fists clenching. “That Baratheon _oath_ called it an act of war. When Dorne asked for justice, we were ignored.”

Lyarra looks out over the water gardens, her voice low. “Thousands shall die for your vengeance. Is it worth it?”

Oberyn smiles darkly. “Of all the things we disagree on, I thought a want for justice would be something we shared. You went to war for your father, just as I wish to go to war for Elia. Tell me, Princess, what would you do if your brother was slaughtered?”

Lyarra ignores the bite in his tone, the way he sneers the word ‘brother’. She knows what he must see, the way she flinches at the insinuation and cringes away from the topic. But he should know by now that she will never speak of Robb Stark with him, not when her heart remained caged by grief.

“My father was an honourable man,” Lyarra snaps, her cheeks flushing, “and they took his head for his loyalty.”

Oberyn is quiet for a moment, before he corrects her, “He was your Uncle, Lyarra. You must remember that.”  

Lyarra scowls, glowering into the dark. She wants to scream at the thought of Uncles and secrets; of lies and mistruths. Never has she wished so much for her father to be alive, just so she could kill him again. _See what you have made me, Papa,_ she wants to say, _the sin of a lie._

“Rhaegar Targaryen is no father of mine.”

“Alas,” Oberyn whispers, “your eyes tell a different story.”

* * *

The moons pass by, with no news of Quentyn Martell.

Lyarra spends most of her time studying, and with half the court in Sunspear, she has too much time on her hands.

They send Maester Karn to teach her and while he’s a kind man, Lyarra does not take to him. Too often, he speaks in riddles – and when she tires of that, he begins speaking in Valyrian. The language of a fallen people doesn’t come naturally to her. The words, long and foreign, twist on her tongue and stumble from her lips whenever attempted.

Maester Karn hates her pronunciation, hates her accent and hates her, it seems. She would take Septa Mordane and her stern hands any day if it would mean she would never have to see the ancient Maester again. But Septa Mordane is dead and buried, her bones turned to dust in the capital, and in her stead is a Maester who should have died a decade ago.

Even with his tutoring, Lyarra still struggles when they begin to learn of dragons. In her books, these creatures seem fantastical – terrifying in nature, and familial by blood.

“The Targaryens bred dragons as they bred each other,” Maester Karn says, “and so when the last dragon died, it offered little hope for the future of their House.”

“But now there are new dragons,” Lyarra says, her hands sore from writing and her mind tired. “Daenerys Targaryen birthed them from fire.”

“Aye, that is right,” Maester Karn says. “But from all reports, Daenerys Targaryen is yet to mount one of them.”

“I don’t blame her,” Lyarra says under her breath, looking down to her notes. Mounting a dragon would be to mount death, and Lyarra has no intent on taunting the Stranger even more. “Who would want to ride a dragon?”

“Thousands,” Maester Karn murmurs. “When Prince Jacaerys Velaryon called upon the dragon seeds to mount his dragons, hundreds of men tried their hands at dragon riding.”

“And hundreds of men died.” Lyarra shifts in her seat, glaring up at her teacher. “I have spent enough time scouring over these books to know the dance of dragons.”

A smile tugs at Maester Karns lips. “There is the lesson, little Blackfyre. Why did the men die?”

“I don’t know,” Lyarra responds, annoyed at Maester Karns nickname. She resents the fact Maester Karn even knows who she is – and had told Oberyn as much. The Prince had simply waved off her concerns, and told her to ignore him. _How I wish I could._ “And I’m not a Blackfyre, Maester. I’m a Snow.”  

“Nonsense,” Maester Karn says, his chains clattering against his chest. “You are a bastard of the House Targaryen – a Blackfyre in everything but name.” Lyarra levels him with the dirtiest look she can muster, before he continues. “Now answer the question: why did these men die?”

“I told you, I don’t know,” Lyarra snaps, crossing her arms. “Were they Valyrian?”

“Some were, some weren’t,” Maester Karn says. “The Targaryens believed those without Valyrian blood were unworthy to mount a dragon, but even those with Targaryen lineage fell when faced with a dragon. Why?”

“I. don’t. know,” Lyarra bites out, glaring at the Maester.

“And neither did the Targaryens,” Maester Karn murmurs, sitting across from her. “These men and women who claimed to be born from fire knew little when it came to dragons – they couldn’t explain why their children would die, if a dragon didn’t accept them. By the end of it, it seemed like the Targaryens didn’t know what a dragon was at all.”

“Well, that’s what madness does,” Lyarra says, thinking of her grandfather – burnt by the mad king. _Your other grandfather_ , a voice whispers.

Maester Karn nods. “It is – and that is a lesson you must remember.”

“How can I?” Lyarra spits. “The madness of my father tore Westeros in two.”

Maester Karn rolls his eyes. “Put aside your dramatics for a moment, and listen to what I am saying. History teaches us that dragons are intelligent beings; they can listen to commands and bond with a human. If you believe the folklore, dragons are the one last remnant of a time gone – a time where dragons were revered.”

“Is there a point to this?”

“Dragons know madness,” Maester Karn snaps, “they know character, they know good. And so it is the _dragon_ who chooses its master, not the other way round. The dragon claims it’s rider; that is why no one person rides two dragons.”

“So… the dragon refused the Targaryens because of their madness?”

“Aye,” Maester Karn nods, “or something of the sort. Why would a dragon want an unstable master?”

Lyarra is pensive, her fingers tracing the words of the book before her. “If that’s the truth, Daenerys Targaryen will never be able to ride her dragons.”

Maester Karn chuckles. “Oh, my dear, how I wish that was the truth.” He moves to open a book, showing an illustration of Queen Alysanne and her dragon. “The beasts of Valyria will deem the good worthy. If her soul is true, Daenerys Targaryen shall ride one of her dragons – but only if her dragons agree.”

“Lucky her,” Lyarra grumbles, pushing the book away. “So you’re saying that you have to be a good person to ride a dragon?”

“No,” Maester Karn says. “Only that the dragon must deem you valuable.”

“And how does that work?” Lyarra asks, her mouth growing dry. “Do you simply walk up to a dragon and say ‘please, oh dragon lord, let me mount you’?”

Maester Karn sighs, closing the book before her. His old eyes hold a sombreness to them, and his lips press together in a line. “You must do your reading if you want to know the answer to that question, Blackfyre.”

“You said even the greatest Targaryen Kings and Queens didn’t know the answer to that question,” Lyarra snaps. “How do you expect me to?”

“If you are a true dragon, you shall find the answer,” He murmurs, passing her a book. “It is in your words, after all.”

Lyarra glances down to the page. _And so the dragon bonds with his rider, through an act of fire and blood._

* * *

Doran is growing restless with each passing day; angry, too.

“Mahaps Quentyn has gotten himself killed,” Lyarra says one day, to the ire of the ruling Prince.

After that, he doesn’t talk to her for a week.

“My father is a complex man,” Arianne says in explanation, back finally from Sunspear. She wears a gown of green today, twisting her hair into braids as she stares into the water. “A man of little loyalty.”

Lya snorts. “That’s hardly a way to speak about your father.”

“Mayhaps,” Arianne murmurs, “but I wouldn’t put it past him to imprison me, if given the chance.”

Lyarra is quiet, before she turns to the Princess with an eye for vengeance. “If I asked you for your help, would you give it?”

Arianne feigns disinterest. “Depends what the request is, Princess. I am a very busy woman.”

“I need to send a letter,” Lyarra says quickly. She has been thinking about it for weeks now; unable to shake it from her mind. Tywin was now dead, and with his death came a certain freedom. _Robb could know,_ she had thought, _I could write to him._

But even the idea is enough to bring her to her knees. It had taken courage to give in to the urge to write the King in the North; courage she seemed to lack these days. For in the depths of her chest, where once a wolf lived, a dragon now roared for fire and blood. _Robb shall not even recognise me,_ she thinks, _and when he does, he shall discard me just as easily as he abandoned me._

The fury comes hot at the thought – fury she does not allow herself to wallow in. It would be so easy to allow her anger to consume her, for it is greedy in it’s hunger for more. But she cannot pay it too much attention, otherwise she will find herself weeping at the thought of Robb Stark and his betrayal.

“That’s a dangerous thought.” Arianne moves her feet in the water. “What if it was intercepted?”

“You would make sure it wasn’t,” Lyarra rationalises.

Arianne scoffs, the water capturing the green silk of her gown. It darkens in the pool, floating with the lilies. “I cannot control ravens, Lyarra.”

“Please, Arianne,” Lyarra murmurs. She feels like she’s in Kings landing again, pleading for her life. “It’s just one letter.”

Arianne is still; tortured, even. Lyarra has never seen the Princess so sombre and she knows she has already lost. “This would mean going against my father. Against my Uncle.”

“You haven’t had a problem going against him in the past.”

There is a moment of silence, but it speaks louder than Arianne’s words ever could. “Lyarra, I …can’t.”

Lyarra doesn’t want to plead. She doesn’t want to be that girl again, beseeching someone else for her own life. “Arianne, I have to let him know I’m alive.”

 _You have to tell him you’re a dragon,_ a voice whispers, _you have to let him abandon you once again._

“And what if it’s shot down?” Arianne asks. “What if the Lannisters shoot our raven, take your letter and descend on Dorne? It’s too dangerous, Lyarra.”

“It’s not dangerous.”

“Stupid words,” Arianne snaps, “and you know so. You would sentence us to death just to speak to him?”

 _I would let the world burn to speak to him. “_ It would work.”

“What would work?” Obara asks from the side of them, her brown skin glistening with sweat. Arianne jumps at her voice, obviously shocked at her proximity.

“Seven hells, Obara!” Arianne snaps, her hand hovering over her heart. “Must you sneak up _every_ time? Even a raven has the decency to squawk before delivering bad news.”

Obara rolls her eyes. “Oh, hush, cousin. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Meaning you were eavesdropping?”

“I have no interest in hearing you two gossip about your most recent victim, Arianne.” Obara turns her attention to Lyarra. “Princess.” Now it’s Lyarra’s turn to glower. “My father is asking for you.”

Lyarra turns back to the pools. “Is Doran finally going to speak to me again?” She swings her feet in the water, making waves. “Or does Oberyn want to justify his sins once more?”

“I care not for your dramatics, Princess,” Obara sneers, “and I care less for the stain on my father’s name. Come, or I shall make you.”

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you, Obara?” Lyarra taunts, remembering the rumours. Obara’s eyes flash with carefully guarded anger; anger Lyarra had seen in the yard. “And better yet, I doubt you could force me. You couldn’t even win a simple spar.”

“Careful,” Arianne tuts. “We don’t need a bloodbath in the gardens. Last time that happened, Oberyn was banished to Pentos.”

Obara studies Lyarra carefully, her lip pulling back into a sneer. “Come, or don’t. I don’t care, Princess.” Obara turns on her heel then, before glancing over her shoulder. “Oh, and just so you know, I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole.”

Arianne snorts, before Lyarra joins in on the laughter. “Would you rather steal lemon cakes from children?”

“I would eat a Lannister,” Obara snaps, “before I ever ate you.”

With that, she stalks off – anger alighting her every step.

“Now _that_ was fun,” Arianne says, tossing her hair over shoulder so the sun can reach her neck. “Mayhaps you should try for Obara over her father. It might be a bit more entertaining.”

Lyarra cringes. “I’m not that way inclined.”

“Oh, my sweet,” Arianne sings, brushing Lyarra’s curls away from her cheek, “that’s what _everyone_ says.”

After a day in the gardens, spent under the scorching sun, Lyarra finally makes her way back to the keep. She knows it is rude to have spent the time ignoring Oberyn, and his many requests to see her, but today, she doesn’t care. Her life has become a series of meetings, and future talks of blood and war. She _hates_ it.

Her mood sours when she sees Obara leaning against a wall down the hall, near her own bedchambers. She is talking to a handmaiden, a smile alighting her face. If she wasn’t so grim, Obara would be attractive, Lyarra thinks. _Too bad her beauty is wasted on bitterness and a sour tongue._

As quick as she can manage, Lyarra turns on her heel and heads in the opposite direction. She resolves to take the back hall to her chambers, in a bid to avoid the shrew that was Obara Sand.

“Oi, Princess!”

_Gods, be good._

Lyarra stills, closing her eyes.

“I didn’t think you were one to run away from a fight,” Obara calls, tauntingly. _Always taunting._

“I’m avoiding you,” Lyarra replies, cold. “There’s a difference.”

Obara is smiling widely when Lyarra finally turns. The action should have comforted her, but that was never Obara’s intent. Like her blades, smiles are weapons too. “There’s no difference.”

“I’m not in the mood to quarrel, Obara.” Lyarra just wants to sleep. “If you want to spar, I’d be more than happy to beat you tomorrow.”

“I don’t want to spar,” Obara says, shaking her head. “I think I have had enough of distractions.”

“Distractions?” Lyarra echoes.

“You haven’t noticed?” Obara asks. “The way they distract you?” She steps closer, her breath spilling over Lyarra’s face. “Days spent sparring and afternoons in the sun. My family are masters at diversion.”

“What are you talking about?”

Obara reaches out, her finger tracing the scar on Lyarra’s cheek, before going to her lips. “A dragon dressed up as a bastard is quite a prize, especially to the Queen with silver hair and an army at her back. What’s to say Daenerys Targaryen would be allied with us when she comes to Westeros, aye?”

Lyarra’s heart picks up, a thundering wind slamming at her chest.

“My Uncle was smart to protect you,” Obara continues, “and even smarter to win you on side. It will make the trade easier, in the end.”

“The trade?”

Obara grins, baring her teeth. “A war is coming, and Dorne must be prepared. We have nothing to protect us from dragons – nothing except a girl with a claim to the Iron Throne.”

“I’m a bastard,” Lyarra parrots. “I will never have any legitimate claim.”

“That won’t matter to the Queen of Meereen,” Obara murmurs. “No, she will be quite willing to accept a trade with Dorne – especially for a girl that threatens all she holds dear.”

“So, what?” Lyarra asks. “You think she shall kill me? That Oberyn has been preparing me like a lamb to slaughter?”

Obara throws her head back, and laughs. “Dorne is not a charitable place,” Obara finally murmurs, “and we do not do things for free, _Princess_.”

Lyarra slams the door to her chambers, and wishes her anger would bring down the walls of the keep. Her fury is an impatient dragon within her, whispering of the destruction it could bring. _Let me burn this place down,_ it asks, as it razes from cell to cell. Slowly, she can feel it twist around her heart. Lungs contract, gut spits, and suddenly she is screaming.

Anger is a well worn comfort for Lyarra Snow and comes easily. Her body welcomes it, calls for it, even. And yet despite the warmth it brings, there is a rot in its roots – filling her veins with a heavy led.

“What’s wrong?”

Oberyn's voice breaks her out of her angered daze.

Through blurring eyes, she asks, “What are you doing here?”

“You did not come when I asked,” Oberyn says, shutting the book he was reading. His face quickly grows concerned. “You’re upset.”

Lyarra wipes at her face, feeling a desperate emptiness fill her chest. Oberyn Martell has known her only as this; a weeping girl, defined by the injustice of others sins. He knew nothing of the girl that lived at Winterfell, or the woman that walked beside the King in the North. _I was as vibrant as the sun itself,_ she thinks, _and men in castles ruined it._

No, Oberyn Martell only knew her as Lyarra Targaryen – or mayhaps it was Lyarra Blackfyre. He knew her only as a victim of war, not the warrior daughter of Eddard Stark. The hole in her chest flares open again at the thought of her parentage, of the lies that had been told to her. Not a Snow, nor a bastard. Not a Targaryen, nor a Stark.

She is _nothing._

Everything that once defined her is now gone. Ghost was in the North, along with any dignity she had left. Her strength was stripped away by Tywin Lannister, with every beating and assault. And Oberyn Martell got what remained; the fractured child of a war torn coupling, stripped of her virtue and blemished by deep buried scars.

“I saw Obara in the hall,” Lyarra begins, her tone lilting with spite. “She says you have been distracting me.”

Oberyn stands, his expression cautious.

“Have you, Oberyn?” Lyarra asks, hoping that her voice will be strong. But even with her hope, her voice barely comes above a whisper – too filled with trepidation to be a bold statement. “Have you been distracting me from the truth?” _Please say no. Please say she was lying._

“And pray tell,” Oberyn begins, “what would that truth be?”

“That Dorne is not readying me for an alliance with Daenerys Targaryen,” Lyarra says, forcing her voice to be harder this time. “That I am merely a trading chip – a piece of barter to secure Dornes freedom.”

Oberyn's eyes darken, and he steps forward. Lyarra turns away at the sight of him, wiping at her cheeks as more tears escape her. _Stop crying,_ she orders, _stop crying._

“And what would the trade guarantee?” Oberyn asks. His expression is torn between anger, and incredulity. “It seems foolish to give up a claimant to the throne, all for the alliance of a woman we know nothing of.”

Lyarra cannot help herself. “It’s foolish to send an heir to wed her as well.”

“Quentyn is not heir.” Oberyn is glaring at her. “For all that Arianne likes to think it, there is no conspiracy to make him so. And there is no conspiracy here.”

“Obara seems to think so.”

“Obara knows _nothing_ ,” Oberyn hisses, enraged. “She is my eldest daughter, not my confidante. I do not tell her the goings on of Dorne, Lyarra.”

“You tell her enough.” Lyarra shows him her back, furious. She will not be talked out of her anger. “I have been kept here in a cage, Oberyn. I cannot write to Robb, I cannot leave, I cannot persuade Doran out of his delusions. And for what? My blood? The coupling of a woman I thought an Aunt and a man I believed to be a rapist?”

Her chest is heaving now, her anger a spectacular blaze. “Let's be honest, Oberyn. Daenerys Targaryen will take one look at me and burn me to a crisp, and Dorne shall be safe. Isn’t that right?”

“No,” Oberyn mutters. “No, it isn’t.”

Silence falls over them, like a heavy fog. Lyarra doesn’t know what to believe, but her fury is yet to subside. Like the waves of the summer sea, it is unyielding – pulling her under, and threatening to fill her lungs with salt.

“I did not take you here because of your blood, Lyarra.” Oberyn is close to her; she can feel his warmth. “I brought you here because Tywin Lannister was beating you. Raping you. I saw an opportunity to stop that, and so I did.”

“Not before confirming my parentage,” She bites out.

“No,” Oberyn murmurs, softly, warmly, “not before that.”

She turns, her cheeks wet. “Why?”

“Doran has seen me bring many women to Dorne,” Oberyn reveals. “Broken women, butchered by men that see fit to mutilate them. I try to help where I can; give them a home, some food, help them build a life. Doran calls them my penance; my flagellation. I’ve never thought of it that way.”

Oberyn moves to sit down, pouring himself a cup of wine. “When I saw you in King's Landing, I knew what they would do to you. Tywin Lannister is not a kind man, and you are beautiful – too beautiful for even the kingmaker to resist. I was just glad that it wasn’t Joffrey himself who wished to claim you.”

Lyarra flinches.

“I decided, before I knew who you were, to take you from there,” Oberyn murmurs, “and to bring you here. I wanted you safe, and I could not allow them to do to you what they had done to Elia.”

“Ah,” She breathes in understanding. “You saw Elia in me.”

He chuckles. “No, Lyarra.” He moves to stand beside her, his eyes meeting hers. “I saw pain, not my sister.”

“But …” She doesn’t want to point out the obvious, doesn’t want to say the words; _but she was raped too._

“You may have shared the same tragedy, but Elia was nothing like you.” Oberyn smiles thinking of her, before the melancholy returns. “I could never think of her when I look at you, Lyarra; not with those eyes.”

Lyarra turns away again.

“With those eyes, I see my nephew,” Oberyn says, “and how could I leave the kin of my kin unprotected? Elia would never forgive me.”

“So, I _am_ your penance?” Lyarra asks. “You didn’t save them, so you saved me?”

“I couldn’t save Elia,” Oberyn mutters, “or Rhaenys, or Aegon. And I am tormented by that. But I do not need to pay penance for the sins of others, Lyarra; I have enough of my own to worry about.”

Lyarra is silent, letting the words wash over her.

“I am sorry you feel trapped here,” Oberyn says, quietly. “I only ever intended to keep you safe. But if you truly wished to write to your cousin, you would have found a way.”

Lyarra’s head snaps up. “What…”

“I do not underestimate you, Lyarra,” Oberyn says. “This girl who commands wolves and kills men should not be misjudged. I always knew that. And so this woman could not be held back by the demands of a gout ridden Prince, or his foolish brother. If you wished, you could have found someone in this keep to send a letter. A guard, mayhaps. Any of them would have fallen for your words and promise of a tryst. And yet you have not made one effort, save for today.”

Lyarra’s head snaps up. “You’ve been spying on me?”

“Obara does not spy,” Oberyn sneers, “but she told me what she heard. Asking Arianne was foolish, sweetling.”

Lyarra’s cheeks burn brightly. “If you’re going to torment me, you can leave.”

“You don’t leave when you torment me,” Oberyn murmurs, circling her. His anger drips away like water on slate, and suddenly, he is standing in front of her, his eyes soft. “You have many enemies, Lyarra, but I am not one of them. Haven’t I proven my worth?”

Lyarra thinks back to his kindness, to the risks he had taken, all for her. Guilt comes quickly, and her stomach rolls with the knowledge of what she accused him of.

“I feel so lost here,” Lyarra admits, her voice low. “Everything I had is now gone. Every possession, every conviction, every _name_ . The man who raised me is not my father, and the man who is ruined my family. The man I love, who I was never supposed to love, thinks I am gone, but what does it matter when he didn’t even try to save me?” Her voice breaks off, choked with anger. “The next time I see him, I may be on the back of a dragon. Do you know how  _agonising_ that is?”

“I can imagine.”

“No,” Lyarra snaps, angry again. “You can’t, Oberyn. Because for all the grief you know, the pain you have suffered, you will never have your name taken from you. I am the product of lies and deception; not a Snow, not a Sand, and **not** a Targaryen. I am nothing, and yet something important enough to protect. It’s _maddening._ ”

Oberyn is quiet.

“And I am mad,” Lyarra murmurs, tasting blood in her mouth, “because you’re right. I haven’t even tried to write to Robb, to tell him I’m alive. I love him, desperately… and every day I spent in Kings Landing, I wished to speak to him. And now that I’m here, now that I could possibly write him, I haven’t bothered.”

She wipes away the tears that blur her vision. “But how can I, Oberyn? I shall write him, and he shall know what I am: the daughter of a dragon. Not a Stark, not anything close. Worse yet, I am no longer his. Tywin Lannister made sure of that.”

“No one can own you, Lyarra,” Oberyn whispers, brushing her hair away from her face.

“I feel like he does,” Lyarra says, her voice losing its life. “Every time I bathe, every time I dress, I see his blade, his hands, his eyes. He made sure that no man would undress me without seeing him first.”

“I don’t see him,” Oberyn says, “and neither would Robb.”

“Robb would torment himself at the thought of what I look like now,” Lyarra chokes out, her chest caving in. And then she said it: the very thing that has been plaguing her for moons now. “I would _repel_ him.”

Oberyn doesn’t try to comfort her, and she is glad for it. Usually, he would wrap her in his arms, but it seems like he knows that’s not what she wants.

“I don’t think so,” Oberyn murmurs softly. “For how could anyone be repelled by the moon?”

Lyarra hugs herself tight, letting out a large sigh. Her mind starts to clear, and she finds herself by the window – gazing out over the gardens. She feels like apologising for her tears, but then she realises Oberyn would never accept an apology for grief.  

It’s then the thought hits her like a slap in the face. “Why did you want to see me? Why were you waiting here?”

Oberyn blinks, before he looks to his shoes. _He doesn’t want to tell me._

“What is it?” Lyarra asks. When that doesn’t work, she tries to jest; “It can’t get much worse, Oberyn. Tell me.”

He offers her a letter, stamped with the seal of House Reed.  

“You’ve been in contact with Howland Reed?” Lyarra gapes at him, tearing at the seal.

The missive is small but efficient.

_The Queen in the North is with child._

_His grace is not happy._

_Be kind when you tell her._

The letter slips from her fingers, and so does her sanity.

* * *

They leave her alone for weeks.

Elia does not come to her chambers, nor does Arianne.

Oberyn keeps his distance too and finally, it seems, the Dornish understand boundaries.

She is grateful to be allowed to wallow in her grief, her heartbreak, her complete and utter dissolution.

_Robb is having a child._

_And it’s not mine._

Lyarra always knew this day would come. Robb was destined to be Warden of the North, and Lord of Winterfell. With that, came responsibilities. He would have to wed a woman of fine standing and have children with her. The thought had bothered her, especially when he was between her legs. The thought that their affair, their love, would come to an end because of some southern bride was unfair.

But it had come to end because of the Lannisters, not because of the Frey girl he wed.

It is a moon into her self-imposed exile that she is called before Prince Doran, who doesn’t seem to notice the shadows beneath her eyes, or the weight now lost.

“Quentyn has written,” He announces, his smile broad, “and you are to travel to Meereen.”

Lyarra doesn’t bother even glancing at Oberyn, for she knows what she will see. He is, no doubt, accompanying her.

“And what then?” Lyarra asks, her voice dry. “Shall I strap myself to the pyre and allow her to burn me?”

Doran’s lips twitch.

“There will be nothing of the sort,” He says with a wave of his hand. “Quentyn writes that she is curious about you. And she shall not risk killing you, not yet.”

“Joy,” Lyarra mutters, fingering her breeches. “So, what’s the plan? I go to Meereen, pledge my unwavering support, and then offer myself up as dragon meat?”

“You shall go to Meereen,” Doran nods, “and you shall convince her of your lineage. Then there shall be time for negotiations.”

“Convince her?” Lyarra echoes. “I thought my eyes were proof enough.”  

“They will be,” Oberyn says, before showing a piece of parchment, “along with this.”

“What is it?” She asks.

“A sworn testimony from Howland Reed,” Oberyn explains. “And a testimony from Allyria Dayne.”

“Allyria Dayne?” Lyarra asks. “What does she have to do with anything?”

Oberyn doesn’t answer her.

“We will also be offering her a treaty,” Oberyn says. “And that is something she won’t reject.”

Arianne is at the dock when they board, having rode in from Sunspear.

“Stay safe,” Arianne says, a haunted look in her gaze. “And tell my brother hello.”

“Why?” Lyarra asks, dryly. “I thought you didn’t like the boy.”

“I don’t,” Arianne says simply. “I just want to remind him that I am still here, in Dorne, while he’s traipsing around the east.”

Not even that can bring a smile to Lyarra’s face, and Arianne knows it.

Grimacing, she brushes Lyarra’s hair from her shoulders and offers her a smile. “Don’t let the dragon Queen push you around, Princess. And don’t let Robb Stark do it either.”

Lyarra flinches at the name, but that doesn’t stop her from wrapping her arms around Arianne. “I’ll try not to die.”

“Good,” Arianne murmurs into her hair, squeezing her tightly. “That would be such a boring end.”

“On the contrary,” Lyarra says, “it would be quite interesting to be eaten by three dragons.”

Arianne offers her a quick grin, before she straightens Lyarra’s braid. “I shall see you when you return.”

“If,” Lyarra corrects.

“ _When_ ,” Arianne says with a smile, looking to the ship. “I am to go to Storm's End when you leave. What’s it like?”

Lyarra is confused. “Storm’s End? Why are you going there?”

“There are loose ends to be tied,” Arianne explains, looking away and offering her nothing more.  

Lyarra hates being on the water, and she hates it even more that the sand snakes are joining them. Obara glares at her with a passion, and the others, while hesitant with their interest, keep their distance. They may not hate her as Obara does; but they would not go against their eldest sister.

It’s times like these that Lyarra misses Ellaria, who could calm the sand snakes with so much as a look.

Lyarra suspects Oberyn misses her too.

“It shall not be so bad,” Oberyn says one night, as he catches her gazing out over the waves. She hates the water with a passion, and she doesn’t know why. But still, every night, she comes out to the deck, looking above her at the stars that glitter in the black sky. _Look at the stars, Robb, and see me in them._ “And despite what you may think, I don’t think you’ll meet your end at the orders of Daenerys Targaryen.”

“It won’t be so bad if that did happen,” Lyarra murmurs, thinking of a Northern Queen and a swelling belly. _Lady Stark is sure to be happy._ “It would make things easier for Robb, at least. He won’t have to see me again.”

“You make death sound easy,” Oberyn says. “I think you underestimate the Stranger.”

“I do not,” Lyarra slings back. “I think I spite him. A girl with too many lives, with too many chances.”

“Silly girl,” Oberyn tuts. “The Stranger cannot be spited. It is He that makes the final decision – and no one can escape Him then.”

“Well, He’s had fun taunting me all these years,” Lyarra says quietly, stealing a glance at Oberyn. The ocean air suits him, and while he would say he misses Dorne, she suspects he likes the promise of adventure.

“Death doesn’t taunt, Lya,” Oberyn murmurs. “He takes as he must, even when it’s not necessarily fair.”

Lyarra purses her lips, casting him a glare. “Are you a Maester, now? Shall we turn the ship around and return you to the Citadel?”

Oberyn rolls his eyes, a smile on his lips. “I don’t think they would be too quick to accept me.”

“Why?” Lyarra asks, inhaling deeply. She feels lighter here, away from Westeros; _away from Robb._ “The Citadel is full of philanderers and adulterers; you’d fit right in.”

Oberyn gives her one last smile, one of those honeyed grins she loves, before he sobers. “When we reach Meereen, you will face real enemies.”

Lyarra is silent.

“Obara shall protect you, as will Tyene,” Oberyn says, “but there will come a time where you may be without a guard.”

“I can protect myself, Oberyn,” Lyarra says, jutting out her chin. “I know how to use a blade.” _I’ve fought in more battles than they have,_ she wants to say.

“I know,” Oberyn agrees, “but a blade is no match for a dragon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, the comments on the last chapter truly blew me away! I can't tell you how great it was to read everyones words. 
> 
> I hope this chapter doesn't dissapoint - but a word of caution: I did not edit this chapter to the best of my ability. There are most likely mistakes, mainly because instead of editing last night, I went and saw Kacey Musgraves live. 
> 
> I know, I'm blessed. 
> 
> Seriously, she's such an icon - and I lived my best yee haw life. 
> 
> And then that was all destroyed by the latest GOT episode. Can't actually stand it anymore, I just hope they don't ruin Sansa. She is my baby and all I want for her is happiness at this point. 
> 
> Let me know what you think of Dorne and it's occupants. I've never read the books, so I'm sure they're OOC - but this is already veering way off the canon line, so please forgive that! 
> 
> Please comment your thoughts - I'm desperate to hear what you think. 
> 
> And next chapter we'll meet our dragon Queen. Be here next Monday night AEST for the next update. 
> 
> Thanks, 
> 
> Em :)
> 
> Song Recs for this chapter: 
> 
> Hey now by London Grammar  
> Rainbow by Kacey Musgraves  
> Island in the Sun by Wheezer (random, I know)   
> Talia by King Princess


	5. The East

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Then sigh not so, but let them go  
> And be you blithe and bonny,  
> Converting all your sounds of woe  
> Into Hey, nonny nonny." 
> 
> \--- William Shakespeare, 'Much Ado About Nothing'

Meereen is beautiful, but it’s beauty is not enough to soothe her worries.  

“It shall be fine,” Oberyn whispers in Lyarra’s ear as they face the great pyramids, intimidating and large. At their peak, a Targaryen flag blows in the wind – the three headed dragon taunting her.

Oberyn steps in front of her to meet with one of the Queens advisors, as Obara steps to stand beside her. “Or,” Obara whispers, “we will all be bathed in dragon fire.”

“You shouldn’t have come,” Lyarra bites out, acid filling her mouth.

“Someone needs to protect my father,” Obara snaps, “and we know you shall not.”

“Knock it off,” Tyene hisses, standing at her other side. She levels a glare at both of them, striking in her fury. “If we’re going to die, I don’t want to hear you two bickering in my last minutes.”

“We won’t die,” Obara says, offering her sister a smile. “I won’t allow that.”

_Liar._

For all the time spent in Dorne, Lyarra Snow was not prepared to meet a dragon. There was a sneaking dread, coiling around her organs, filling her up and setting her on fire. She did not want to see a woman with eyes as violet as her own; did not want to look at the woman whose brother fathered her.

With one look into Daenerys Targaryen’s eyes, Lyarra would know who she was. A dragon, or a wolf. And the thought was terrifying.

“Her grace has been expecting you,” the woman says, her wild mane of curls blowing in the wind. A man stands beside her, draped in black and red armour. “My name is Missandei, and this is…”

“Ser Barristan?” Lyarra steps forward, her eyes wide. She recognises him from the Winterfell, remembering the way her father had greeted the old knight. “What are you doing here?”

His expression is sad – so different from the last time she saw him. “You never really looked like her.”

“What?”

“They said you were Ashara’s,” Barristan murmurs, a shake to his head, “but you look nothing like her. It’s the eyes that had people fooled, the _eyes…_ ”

Lyarra’s cheeks warm under his intense gaze, and she wonders what he sees in her. _I am a walking graveyard,_ she thinks, _a body for the Ghosts of the past._

“They fooled us all,” Oberyn says simply, placing his hand on the shoulder of the old knight. He must sense her discomfort, for he is quick to move the conversation away from Ashara Dayne. “Come. Lyarra must meet her Aunt.”

She flinches, and she knows she shouldn’t. _Bravery doesn’t flinch,_ her father once told her, wiping away her tears and picking her up from the ground she had fallen. When she was a child, bravery was not what it is now. Bravery was facing Lady Stark and her cold eyes. Bravery was facing Theon Greyjoy and his taunts of bastardy. Now, bravery was facing a dragon Queen who may share her blood.

 _Bravery doesn’t flinch,_ her father once told her. She wants to tell him that's a lie.     

“That will have to wait,” Missandei says, her voice tilting. The petite woman is barely older than Lyarra, her small body wrapped in a gown of black. If anything, she resembles a child more than a woman – seeming so small compared to the large knight at her side.

“Why?” Oberyn is the one that asks, as Lyarra is too focused on Slavers bay. She has known enough people to recognise the tone of bad news.

“The Queen has disappeared,” Ser Barristan says. “Her husband took control of the court, but he was quickly removed…”

“Husband?” Lyarra asks, turning her attention away from the bay. After dozens of lessons with Maester Karn, she had thought to know enough about her would be Aunt. Married as an adolescent, to Khal Drogo. Widowed soon after. Her tutor made no mention of a second husband. “Surely we have not been at sea that long.”

“Come,” Missandei says, “there is much to discuss.”

* * *

The court of Meereen is not what they expect.

Lyarra had thought to find her Aunt, tall and silver, sitting on a throne beneath the great pyramid. Instead, she finds a weary knight and an army of unsullied, waiting for orders from a Queen missing from her own city.

“She has been missing for weeks,” Ser Barristan explains, “and we couldn’t let her husband play King.”

The story of Hizdahr zo Loraq and the coup that brought him to his knees is a long one. While beautiful, it becomes clear that Meereen is not safe. The Yunkai'i make for strong enemies – ones that will not stop. Lyarra shifts uncomfortably with each piece of news, knowing what this means. _We have walked into a war._

But it is the fate of Quentyn Martell that truly stuns the Dornish travellers, who gasp for air and cry for justice.

Burned, blackened and practically _dead._

The smell of heartbreak is pungent, and the grief that follows is nostalgic. Lyarra knows what it means to lose a loved one; she had, after all, lost many. The names fill her head like a litany of penance, slowly but surely rearing their presence. _Father. Renly. Bran. Rickon. Robb. Robb. Robb._

Oberyn goes quiet, and demands to see his nephew. Lyarra doesn’t know how to comfort this sorrow, that brings even the most decorated warriors to their knees. Their grief is an eclipse, robbing the sun of it’s light and filling the sky with darkness. Lyarra may not know how to help, but she knows enough of grief to remain silent.

Lyarra leaves them in peace when they go to Quentyn. She waits outside, listening as Oberyn screams. His grief is a winter of emotions, a storm of fury and anger and loss. With every second passed, she can hear his heart break – and it is surely the saddest song she has ever heard.

Ser Barristan is at her side. “The Stranger shows no mercy.”

“And neither do dragons,” Lyarra whispers, glancing to him. “Where are they now?”

“Flying over the city, I’d imagine,” Ser Barristan says, worry pinching his face. “It’s another problem to solve. Another mess to clean.”

“How long do we have until the Yunkai'i come?” She asks, her heart thudding deep in her chest.

Lyarra has seen enough battle to last a lifetime, but she has been relegated to the sidelines for moons. The only blood she has seen has been her own, when Tywin Lannister thought to take his blade to her skin, and when her moon blood appeared. So it is with shame Lyarra pushes away the excitement surrounding the prospect of a battle, ignoring it as it flares in her chest.  

“A day, at most,” Ser Barristan admits. “They want Hizdahr restored back to the throne. I refused.”

“We have sailed into a battlefield,” Lyarra spits, shaking her head. “I suppose we’ll have to fight?”

“I would never ask the unwilling to raise swords.”

 _It is always the unwilling raising the swords,_ Lyarra thinks, wondering about the man men lost to battles their Lords commanded. It is always the lesser man, the lesser woman, that bleeds for their country. The Lords and Ladies that rule over them see fit to declare war when they wish – and the people suffer because of it.

Lyarra turns to look out over Slavers Bay, and shakes her head. “The Dornish will never run from a fight… and neither will I.”

A moment of silence passes between them before Missandei appears.

“Come,” Missandei murmurs, “I will show you to your chambers.”

Missandei is a small girl, petite and young. She couldn’t have been older than Elia, and it makes Lyarra feel conflicted. _The Queen is a collector of children, eunuchs and dragons,_ she thinks, _I wonder if she’ll add a bastard to that list._

The chambers they have given her are a lovely, and Missandei quickly tells her why. “The royal apartments,” She murmurs, “for the consort.”

It’s as if the Gods above are laughing at her. Lyarra curses them.

“Will she mind that I’m using her husband’s chambers?” Lyarra asks, her nose wrinkling at the sight of the bedchambers. She hopes, at least, that they have washed the sheets.

 _"He_ never slept here,” Missandei assures her, distain colouring her words. “And Prince Oberyn shall be nearby, as befitting his station.”

Lyarra nods in understanding, as a silence stretches between them. She can feel Missandei staring at her, like they all do. She knows what she must be looking for; signs of a dragon. _Keep looking,_ Lyarra thinks, _you will not find anything._

“Her Grace was very much looking forward to meeting you,” Missandei says, breaking the quiet. Lyarra has travelled to the window in the silence, looking out over the angry sea. There is a small vindication to be had at the sight of the ocean in turmoil, as if it too realised the incoming storm.  

“Why?” Lyarra asks. She didn’t expect the dragon Queen to keep her alive, let alone greet her presence with excitement.

“The Queen has little family,” Missandei says, as if that’s obvious.

“But I’m not her family,” Lyarra mutters. “I’m just a bastard with Targaryen eyes.”

Sleep does not come easy that night. The dream of Robb and a crumbling Winterfell dances beneath her eyelids, taunting her with it’s detail. A Frey girl heavy with child, a wolf that seems so petulant, and a King that ignores everything around him.

But it is Sansa who stars in this nightmare, her face drawn in misery and her eyes pleading.

“Robb,” Lyarra hears her sister call. “Please, you must listen.”

And there he is. Through the eyes of someone else, Lyarra can see him so clearly it robs her of breath. He is slumped over at his desk, _father’s desk,_ and he wears exhaustion like a crown. Lady Stark sits beside him, ever the puppet master. But even she seems withdrawn, cold.

“We cannot go on like this,” Sansa laments, anger infused in the face of a Lady. But that girl she once was, the girl who enjoyed fine gowns and songs of old, is gone. In her place is a hardened warrior, who bore scars just as any soldier did.

 _But we are all soldiers,_ Lyarra thinks, _one way or another._

“You pay no attention to Roslin, it is almost _cruel,_ ” Sansa snaps, her voice so angry that it doesn’t seem to belong to her. Lyarra’s sister was not made for anger and fury, but this new version of her wore it well. “You mope around, bark orders and then ride off North, all the while treating Roslin as if she has greyscale!”

“Sansa,” Lady Catelyn warns. Her voice sounds different to Lyarra’s ears, almost torturous.

“Please, Mama, let me finish,” Sansa says, holding her hand up to silence Lady Stark. “You must stop punishing Roslin for your misery.”

Robb is silent.

“She does not deserve your anger, Robb,” Sansa lectures. “She is your _wife._ Your _Queen._ Or have you forgotten that?”

“How can I forget that?” Even in her dreams, his voice hurts her. The sounds of a ghost did things to her grief, taunting it into resurrection. “I have given her my cloak, and my crown. I know who she is.”

“Then why do you neglect her?” Sansa asks. “She is carrying your child, Robb. And mayhaps if you spent time with her, you would begin to realise that she is actually quite agreeable. Kind, gentle even.”

Robb scowls. “I don’t want kind. I don’t want _gentle._ ”

Even in dreams, he taunts her.

Sansa scoffs. “And what do you want, Robb? Lyarra? No one has seen her in moons. She could be dead for all we know.”  

Robb shoots up, his lip drawing back in a sneer. But there is no grief in his eyes, no pain at the mention of her potential death. “Don’t speak of her.”

“Lyarra-”

“Get out!” Robb roars, slamming his hands on the desk. It shakes under his fury, but neither Stark is willing to surrender. Sansa is just as vibrant in her anger, just as justified. Lady Stark seems exhausted.

“No!” Sansa shoots back, petulant. “You shall not leave, so neither shall I. You forget, brother, that I have seen more monsters than you have; that I have seen the same monsters that Lyarra has.”

“Is that why you’re here, Sansa?” Robb asks, his tone too weak now. “To taunt me with her? You cannot use her against me.”

Sansa is cold when she says, “Winterfell is a graveyard and no one seems to notice. I cannot keep living amongst ghosts, Robb. And neither can your wife.”

“Roslin is just fine,” Robb dismisses. “And if she has such an issue, she can speak to me about it.”

Sansa lets out a hysterical giggle. “When? You are constantly in the crypts, talking to the dead.”

Sansa shakes her head, and it strikes Lyarra that she is so different. Her young soul has been twisted and torn, aged by the trauma she was forced to bore. Lyarra wonders whether Ayra will be the same, this stranger with the face of her sister.

“Here’s the truth, Robb,” Sansa begins, her tone offering no room for argument. “You are forsaking your wife for a woman no one has seen in moons. It is _wrong_.”

“The wife that was traded for a _fucking_ bridge,” Robb snaps, his tone cold. Lyarra hasn’t seen him this distant since the day in Riverrun, when he sentenced his mother to pay her penance. “Leave, now. I’ve had enough of this.”

“She is carrying your child, your grace,” Sansa says. “Your heir, a Stark. Just because you loved Lyarra does not mean you cannot love her.”

Robb’s nostrils flare, his fists clenching at his side. “Get. Out.”

Lady Stark holds up a hand, attempting to broker peace between her two children. “That is enough.”

“No, it’s not enough, Mama,” Sansa snaps, “and it will not _be_ enough until Robb wakes from his grief.”

Her chest is heaving, and for the first time in her life, Lyarra can see her resemblance with her sister. This beautiful china doll of a girl looks so like a warrior then, wearing her father’s fury like her own. _When did you become a fighter, Sansa?_

“It will be a long time before that happens,” Robb finally mutters, turning to look out the window.

“Then grieve,” Sansa spits, her cheeks flush and bright. Lyarra wants to say something, anything, but in this dream, nothing can be said. “But if you keep acting like this, people will begin to believe the whispers from the South.”

“Sansa!” Lady Stark snaps.

“And maybe they should,” Sansa sneers, to screams…

…screams that wake her up. Disoriented and blind, Lyarra’s hands find her face. “No, no, no.”

She wants to be dreaming again. She wants to be there. She wants to see them.

Tears are quickly clouding her sight and a sob bubbles to the surface. Lyarra knows it is stupid, to mourn the loss of a dream, but she cannot help it. Every ounce of her body yearns for Winterfell, and the safety it once provided; and every ounce of her heart yearns for him.

The screams haven’t stopped, and neither have her tears. Pushing herself out of bed, she walks out of her chambers, following the sounds of turmoil.

It doesn’t take her long to find the source. Oberyn is visceral in his nightmares, but she has never heard him like this before. There are no guards at his door, and so she pushes it open – not a second thought in her mind.

The sight of him thrashing in his furs undoes her. For a moment, she wishes Ellaria was here to soothe him. _But she is back in the West, caring for his children._

“Oberyn,” Lyarra murmurs, her hands coming to his face. “Oberyn, wake up. It’s just a dream.”

Oberyn jolts awake, a man ruined by grief. His eyes are red and his hands claw at her, as if she too will take something from him. _I’m not the Stranger,_ she wants to say, but she settles for her name.

“It’s just me, Oberyn,” Lyarra whispers, dodging his offensive hands. “It’s Lyarra.”

His lips form her name, like a prayer often said. Confusion comes quickly, before realisation sets in. Lyarra can see him remember the pain, the grief that he so wished to forget. Her hand comes to his cheek, as her heart aches for him. _The Stranger might not have taken our lives,_ she thinks, _but he has relished in taking our joy._ “I’m so sorry, Oberyn.”

His chest shudders, before the sobs come.

She doesn’t know how he ends in her arms, but he is quickly weeping in her embrace. This warrior knew more of death than most, and yet even he wasn’t free from the Gods will. The Stranger may not have claimed him, but he was evil enough to claim those around him. _What is a bigger sin,_ Lyarra wonders, _taking a life, or taking the life of those they love?_

“Oberyn,” Lyarra whispers, his name a hymn on her lips. “Oberyn, I’m sorry.”

And she is.

His pain is hers, and his cries, guttural and pained, are only so familiar. For in grief, she knows Oberyn Martell – moreso than she knows anyone else. She knows what it means to lose her love, knows what it means to bargain for a life already taken. _I have cried those tears,_ she wants to say, _and begged for the same mercy._

When the tears dry, Oberyn is hollow. Void of the joy he once carried, he is an overcast sky – all grey and bitter. Lyarra wants to wipe his grief away, and bring back his joy. But little will bring back Oberyn Martell’s joy while his nephew lays in the Queens chambers, dying.

“It’s not fair,” Lyarra observes, “and I wish could change it.”

Oberyn wipes at his tears. “You forget that the Stranger is never fair.”

“I could never forget that.”

Oberyn sits up then, exposing his bare chest. Lyarra has seen it before, but familiarity does nothing to calm her surprise. There, before her, is a litany of scars upon copper skin. They overlap and crisscross, creating a map she wanted to follow. It’s then she feels the warmth blooming in her gut; a warmth she hasn’t felt in moons. Lyarra pushes it away, angry at her body for a reaction with no explanation.

“You’re blushing,” Oberyn murmurs, his breath warm on her face.

Lyarra meets his gaze. Within her gut, there is a stampede of confliction and … attraction. She looks away.

“I had a bad dream,” Lyarra explains, thoughts of Robb flooding back to her. Their grief is shared then – a cloud that hovers over the bed. “Nothing like yours.”

“Mine,” Oberyn mutters, his hand coming to his face. He is quiet for a moment, before he meets her gaze. “I wish it was a dream.”

Lyarra looks down, imagining what he had seen. War is cruel, but she has never seen a death like Quentyns. Burnt, blackened, _destroyed._ No man should die such a death, but to suffer for days afterwards… Lyarra thinks it the worst fate imaginable. _Mayhaps that is why they say the seven hells burn._

“I won’t even be able to take his body back,” Oberyn chokes, his face twisting in pain. “Doran won’t be able to survive the sight of him.”

 _Doran is the reason he’s dead,_ she wants to say.

“He was just a child,” Oberyn mutters, rubbing his eyes. “A boy.”

Lyarra looks down at their joint hands.

“He wanted an adventure,” Oberyn says. “He faced down dragons, so he too would be a part of a song. And now he shall be; _the boy that was burnt._ ”

“He is no different to any man before him,” Lyarra murmurs, tracing the line of his palm. “People will do extraordinary things for a song.”

Oberyn scoffs. “Too many people have sacrificed their lives for the sake of a song.”

A quiet falls over them, and Lyarra could drown in it.

“You must promise never to do the same,” Oberyn says suddenly, his voice offering no room for argument. His hand comes to her face, shaking his head as he whispers, “Forget fate. Forget thrones. Just live.”

Lyarra swelters under the heat of his gaze. “Isn’t fate the only reason I’m here?”

“ _Fuck_ fate,” Oberyn sneers, holding her face tighter. “You cannot die for anyone – not Doran, not Daenerys, not Robb.” Lyarra looks down, unable to sustain his gaze. “You must live, Lya.”

Oberyn takes a heady breath, looking away from her and to the window. “When I saw Quentyn, burned and black, all I saw was Elia. She bore and bled for House Targaryen and yet at the end, her body was thrown away and her children _slaughtered_.”

His chest is heaving with fury, and although it has been more than a decade, the pain is still fresh – an open wound that flares with every word spoken. “I could not bare if I had to burry you, Lyarra. Promise me – promise me you will live.”

“War is not conductive to life, Oberyn,” Lyarra murmurs, her eyebrows furrowing. “And neither are dragons.”

“Promise me,” Oberyn begs, his eyes crazed. His face is inches from hers, his breath warm, his hands even warmer. “Promise, Lya.”

“Why?” She breathes, her heart thundering in her chest. “Why do you care?”

His eyes tell her the answer. And his lips do too.

“Lya…” He whispers, his thumbs tracing circles in his cheeks, and his eyes speaking of his want, “ _please.”_

Lyarra knows what he’s asking. She can feel it in the way he’s holding her, in the way he’s watching her. Every time she has seen the fire in his gaze, she has denied him, her first thought Robb, her second thought Tywin. Lord Lannister had waged war on her body with his cruelty, and she’d been left a fractured person.

But she doesn’t want to be that person anymore. She doesn’t want to be the creature Tywin had made her, broken beyond belief. She doesn’t want to flinch at touch, or want to retch at the thought of a man holding her in the way Robb once had. Tywin Lannister had sought to ruin her and Lyarra Snow doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of success.

His kiss is gentle, but the fire in her gut is not. It rages through her body, leaving every cell singing for more. Her heart can’t keep up, and soon enough, it is jumping out of her chest – every thud screaming _Robb, Robb, Robb._

But she can’t listen to it, not when Oberyn is pulling her into his arms and whispering her name. It is so different from the last time, his arms not holding her down, but holding her, gently. His breath does not stink of wine as Tywins had, nor does his blade draw blood. Instead, he whispers her name, a reverent chant she cannot shake. “Lya, Lya, Lya…”

Logic is telling her to pull away, but she is weak compared to the fire that consumes her. While her heart may belong to Robb, and her fear to Tywin, her body sings for Oberyn. With his lips at her neck, she wonders if this is consolation or crave. If it is comfort, she can’t bring herself to care.

When he takes her, he does it with a question.

“Are you sure?” He whispers, between kissing the scars that Tywin had left. She swallows the bile at the thought of him, inhaling deeply. _I shall not be the woman he sought to make me,_ Lyarra thinks, before she captures his lips once more.

But he needn’t ask, for when he enters her, it is his name she whispers. And with just one kiss, she _burns_.

_When the dragon eggs were bathed in fire, they too were reborn. Mayhaps I shall be too._

* * *

Oberyn asks if she regrets it. She answers him with a kiss.

It is how Lyarra has begun to respond to things. Words have become too heavy and they stick in her throat. Every time she attempts to explain herself, she finds herself choking, gasping for words she cannot deliver.

For how can she tell him the truths her own heart doesn’t know? How can she be honest, when not even she can distinguish her own lies? How can she look Oberyn in the eyes, when her heart is singing a different name? And so, the words become lost in the chasm of her confusion, where the guilt and shame continue to fester.

When they finally leave his bed, Lyarra tries to hide the marks he made. His kiss is tattooed on her skin, blushing in hues of blue and purple. _Robb never left marks,_ she thinks, as she stares at her reflection. The thought sends her cold.

The girls know, that much is clear. Lyarra doesn’t know whether Oberyn has told them, but the thought makes her shiver in her tunic.  

“Don’t worry, Princess.” Obara laughs. “We won’t tell the King in the North.”

Oberyn is not there to admonish them – he’s too busy meeting with Ser Barristan. In that moment, Lyarra wishes to all seven Gods, and the Old Gods too, that she had chosen to go with him.

But even Obara’s teasing is short lived, when her cousins name is whispered.

Quentyn Martell has been wrapped in cotton cloth and placed in a coffin. Tyene tells her it has been nailed shut.

Lyarra can’t eat after that.

When Oberyn comes to her rooms, she is staring out over Slavers Bay. It has become a habit, to look out to the West. Lyarra wonders if Daenerys does the same, looking to the foreign land she claimed to rule. It seems hard to comprehend the Queens want for a land like Westeros, when she has a paradise of sorts here.

“Ser Barristan says there have been no reports of her.”

Daenerys. The dragon Queen. Her Aunt.

Lyarra shivers at the thought. “Then she may be truly gone.”

“She rose from the ashes once,” Oberyn muses, his lips coming to brush the nape of her neck. It is his favourite spot, and she is sure it is painted in the colours of a setting sun. “A woman who bore dragons will not suffer a dull death.”

“Death does not take kindly to being upstaged,” Lyarra says, her body humming at the proximity between them. Oberyn’s heat pours off him like the desert sands, a constant reminder of _who_ he is. And while her guilt may delight in reminding her who he is not, her body is content to bask in his warmth. “And she has escaped him numerous times now. Who knows, maybe the Stranger has a sense of humour. Grant a woman an extraordinary life, and take it away with a boring end.”

“The Stranger may be cruel,” Oberyn whispers, “but I don’t think the Gods are done with Daenerys Targaryen yet.”

Lyarra glances over her shoulder to meet his molten gaze. _Burning. Always burning._ “When did you become a seer, my Prince?”

His arms snake around her waist, tentatively at first, and then strong – a force that makes itself known. _But he is not Robb,_ that force inside her whispers, sadistic and cruel. She knows he is not Robb; she can feel it in her gut every time he is near. Too hot, too old and far too confident. Oberyn smells of fine perfumes; not pines. At every point, Lyarra is aware that he is not Robb.

But that ache in her chest, where the chasm exists, is temporarily gone when he is around. She can imagine herself free of the pain that comes with the thought of her brother turned cousin when she is around him, his presence a balm to the war her emotions wage. Her grief, her heartbreak, is absent when she kisses Oberyn – and just for a moment, she can be free of the chains of her pain.

“The moment you came to my bed,” He murmured against her skin, his tongue hot. She can feel his arousal digging into her back, as his nails rub at her waist. “We’ve entered quite the mess, Lya.”

“I know,” She sighs, wanting nothing more than to take him to her bed. That feeling, that escape, _oh_ how she yearns for it. For the minutes she spent in bed with Oberyn, were minutes she didn’t have to think about Robb. And how she relishes in the break from the grief.

But while Oberyn Martell may be a reprieve from her pain, she knows she cannot allow him to think her changed. She is still the same woman she was when she arrived in Dorne; chained by trauma suffered and by a love thousands of leagues away. Her name may have changed, but her pain has remained the same. And she knows she must tell him the truth.

Lyarra turns in his arm, pressing her hands to his chest. Despite the heat, she can feel the sombreness creeping in – the horror at their reality. “Quentyn is dead. Doran does not know. And Daenerys has left an old knight in charge of an ancient city. Should we leave?”

“No,” Oberyn answers. “The Yunkai'i will be here soon. And when they come, we must help Ser Barristan defend the city.” He pauses for a moment. “If we’re successful, we’ll have to help bring peace back to this godforsaken place.”

“A small council for an excommunicated knight.” Lyarra snorts, unable to help herself. “Now all we need is a bastard as Hand.”

Oberyn seems too thrilled by that idea.

“It’s not an option,” Lyarra snaps, to his laughter. She looks down at his hands, and shrugs them off. “And neither is _this_.”

Oberyn’s eyebrows knit together, horror dawning on his face. “But I thought you wanted…”

“I do,” Lyarra rushes out, trying to ignore the bitter taste that fills her mouth. _Lie, lie, lie._ “But I am not Ellaria, Oberyn. I am not your paramour, not a woman to be played with.”

“I know who you are…” He begins.

“Good,” Lyarra says, summoning her courage. “Then you shall know that nothing shall be different. You shall still be my counsel, my friend… but I can’t love you in that way, Oberyn.” His face flinches with the truth of her words. “I know you can see it, can feel it when you kiss me. My hesitance. That’s all _him_ , Oberyn. And while it feels good to be with you, it … it doesn’t compare.”

She takes a heavy breath, her eyes dropping to the floor. _He needs the truth,_ she reminds herself. “I need you to understand that before you kiss me again. I can’t be responsible for your heart break, Oberyn. I respect you too much to hurt you.”

Oberyn is quiet, as he always is. His expression is calmed by years of diplomatic training, but beneath the mask he wears, she can see the hurt; the anger. “You presume too much.”

“I’m nothing,” Lyarra begins, “if not cautious. You can thank Tywin Lannister for that.”

“I could never thank that cunt for the torture he put you through,” Oberyn spits, fury lighting his face like a comet in the night sky. “And I shall not thank him for changing you.”

“Those days of blood took my youth,” Lyarra says, trying to ignore the thoughts of bloodied sheets and moon tea, “or what was left it. I am a woman now; it was bound to happen eventually.”

“But why let it affect you now?” Oberyn murmurs, grabbing her hand. “I make you happy, Lya. I can see it.”

“You make me forget,” Lyarra corrects, the truth so disgusting it makes her want to gag. “I haven’t felt happy since I left Casterly Rock in chains.”

Oberyn steps back, as if her words are an assault.

Lyarra knows she cannot stop know – the truth so insistent to be heard that it spills from her. “If you wish to take me, you shall have me. I shall kiss you, and love you as best I can. But while you may have my body, you shall never have my heart – and that is what I’m asking of you.”

A laugh escapes her – bitter, twisted. “It’s selfish, I know. But last night distracted me from the pain for the first time in nearly a year, and it felt _good_ . You felt good, and safe, and _warm._ So I may not be able to give you all of me, but I shall try to make you happy.”

“I don’t want to be made happy,” Oberyn whispers. “I only want you.”

“Then take me.”

He takes his time with her body this time, lavishing her with long kisses and a warm touch. When his mouth meets her core, it is his name she screams – and when she sits atop him, filled to the hilt, it feels almost like riding through the woods of Winterfell. She can see herself galloping, her hands digging into his chest as his hands come to her hips.

When he finally brings her to her climax, she sees Nymeria’s star behind her eyelids. The pleasure is so great, so vast, that she wonders if all of Meereen will hear her cry. She suspects the occupants of the pyramid will at least, but for now, she cannot bring herself to care; not when Oberyn is yelling out her name and pushing her off, spilling on her stomach.

After it is done, Oberyn draws circles in her skin, from mark to mark, scar to scar.

“I love Ellaria,” He whispers against her skin, breaking the silence that had stretched between them. “I love her. I always will. But she knows that I can never give her marriage, or legitimacy.” Oberyn presses a kiss to her wrist, as he cleans her stomach of his seed. “I don’t want to, in any case.”

Lyarra cocks a brow, watching him dispose of the wet cloth. “Do you have an agenda against the Gods?”

“Legitimate children would mean legitimate betrothals.” Oberyn’s face twists in torture. “I cannot sell my daughters to the highest bidder, Lyarra. I will not ship my girls off like cattle and wait for them to come back in coffins.”

A bitter laugh escapes him then. “Most people pity my daughters for their bastardy, for how could a bastard be worth anything to a father?” Oberyn’s eyes meet hers, his hand brushing a wild curl from her cheek. “I gave my children the name Sand to save them from a life of misery, all because I cannot sleep without seeing my sister and what became of her.”

Oberyn finally smiles, “I understand grief, Lya, and I shall not hold that against you. But don’t ask me to not love you.”

“I’m not,” Lyarra says, almost too quickly.

“You are,” Oberyn murmurs. “A mummers love.”

Lyarra turns to lie on her back, gazing up at the ceiling. Her muscles ache from their fucking, but it is nothing compared to the anxiety that is filling her chest. Sitting up, she brings her knees to her chest – leaning her head on her knee caps and obscuring her breasts from view. Oberyn is watching her, his dark eyes holding whispered secrets.

“Don’t ask me to give you more,” Lyarra whispers, pleading. “Don’t ask that of me.”

Oberyn’s chest falls with his breath, and he offers a curt nod. “Whatever you want, Princess.”

* * *

Meereen is still beautiful, even under siege.

At the western gate, five thousand Unsullied are waiting to defend the city – joined with the Stormcrows and pit fighters. These people, slaves and warriors alike, gape at the sight of her – the woman who many believe to be the Queens kin. Lyarra wonders if they believe the whispers, for she wouldn’t.

She can already hear their disbelief. This cannot be the Queens kin, they whisper. Too dark. Too different. _Too Northern,_ she hears. For the first time in her life, she is thankful for her Stark look. _See me for the wolf I am,_ she wants to say, _not the dragon they want me to be._

Ser Barristan had been clear that this battle would not be fair. The Yunkai’i well outnumbered the forces Meereen had to it’s advantage, and even with dragons flying overhead, there was a sombreness to the Unsullied. But she has fought in unfair battles before, and she knows what it costs.

“We must destroy the trebuchets,” Ser Barristan had told them earlier, in the light of Meereens war rooms. “It will be enough of a distraction for the Unsullied to line the city.”

“And if we fail?” Lyarra had asked, staring out at the sky. Missandei claimed the dragons were above, waiting for the battle.

“Then Meereen is lost,” Ser Barristan murmured, “and we are dead.”

Looking out over Slavers Bay, Lyarra wonders if Ser Barristan will be right. Will death come today? _It certainly looks it._

A screech breaks Lyarra out of her thoughts, drawing her attention to the skies.

“Gods be good,” Tyene whispers from beside her, a shadow falling over her face. “ _Dragons._ ”

High in the dark abyss they fly, their wings lit by the moon they eclipse. In the dark, they seem like creatures of the night, rather than children of the Sun. A roar rips through the stars, and they are descending on Meereen, diving and dipping and _flying_. Lyarra can only watch, transfixed, as she tries to calm her fear.

Lyarra may be facing the Stranger himself, but at least she has faced him before. She has never seen dragons like these – alive and thriving. They dominate the sky as they would a battlefield, monsters in the face of men. A shiver wraps around her spine at the thought of encountering one.  

“Monsters,” Tyene whispers, blinking up against the sky. Lyarra turns to the fair haired Sand Snake, watching as tears trail down her cheeks and mar her young face. Tyene is still in the throes of grief, her memory of Quentyn so fierce it threatens to overwhelm the battle.

“Aye,” Lyarra agrees, her eyes turning back to the skies above. “But I don’t think they’re the only monsters we shall see tonight.”

“Lyarra.”

She turns at the sound of his voice, staring up at Oberyn. Tyene makes herself scarce, retrieving the horses. _At least it is not Obara,_ Lyarra thinks, grateful for small mercies.

Oberyn glances over Lyarra’s armour, swallowing deeply. He had it made while they were in Dorne, his smile having lit up the room when he presented the fine metal to her. “ _It is iron, Princess,”_ He had told her, as her hands trailed over the wolves and dragons, _“to mirror your spine. Iron armour for an iron lady.”_

His hand comes to brush the armour, a smile tugging at his lips. It doesn’t fit in the battleground they will soon fight and she wants to see it gone.  “You suit this.”

“Armour?” Lyarra asks, trying to rid herself of the nerves. “I’ll wear it for you, if you like.”

Oberyn doesn’t respond – instead, he steps closer, blocking out the sight of the marketplace, or the soldiers that are waiting. His breath tastes like sweetened berries, reminding Lyarra of the pies Old Nan once made. While his breath was sweet, it is his embrace that feels much warmer; sweeter than any desert she has ever tasted.

“Keep good on your promise,” He whispers, holding her shoulders tight.

“Always,” Lyarra says, her hands coming to his chest. She can see his eyes burning for her, filled with secrets she already knew. “And you be safe as well. I might kill you if I find out you died on an eastern battlefield.”

“Dying at your hand is too tempting an offer to refuse,” Oberyn whispers, his tone lilting. Even as he promises to live, Lyarra can feel the hammering of his heart – the fear that he held so tightly. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

He brushes his lips over hers, but she can’t leave with just a peck. Winding her arms around his neck, Lyarra pulls him to her, their hearts thundering in chorus. Heat rushes through her, and as his tongue enters her mouth, she feels a fire ravage through her belly. _Come back to me,_ the kiss says, _don’t fall as others have._

Oberyn is the one to pull away – his hand coming to her cheek. In the dark of dawn, his eyes are molten stars, burning brighter than the sun that is yet to rise. “Remind me,” He murmurs, “what do we say to fate?”

Lyarra laughs, remembering his words a few nights prior. “Fuck off.”

“Remember that,” He murmurs, “and stay alive.”

Oberyn walks away, spear in hand, and Lyarra wonders if war shall ever get easier.

Tyene tugs at her hand. “Come,” She says, “it’s time.”

While Meereen may be unlike any place Lyarra has ever known, there is nothing unusual about their war. War is war – bloody and gruesome. There is little to distract from it’s sins, a thought Lyarra takes comfort in. For if there is one thing Lyarra Snow knows how to be, it is a soldier.

The Yunkai’i have six trebuchets in total and Ser Barristan wants one. Harridan is the largest of them all and if they can reach it, they will have more time. _More time for slaughter,_ she thinks, _more time for death._

A corpse lands a few feet away from her, and she has to stifle her cry. The Yankai’i are using bodies as the arsenal, and when they would reach their destination, they would explode – spewing maggots and guts everywhere. It is disgusting, but it is enough to instil fear amongst the soldiers, shouts of disgust surrounding her.

“You are to stay close to me,” Tyene hisses, pulling her to a wall for protection. “Papa will string me from here to Dorne if you die and I am not particularly interested in becoming dragon meat.”

“Don’t worry,” Lyarra murmurs, her eyes returning to the dragons above. “I don’t think the Stranger is done with me yet.”

“We must mount,” Tyene says, shoving her towards the horse. Oberyn is on the other side of the marketplace, watching them. “Otherwise the Stranger will take you, regardless of what you wish.”

From her horse, the people afoot look small – watching on as the white knight makes his speech. Foul your breeches, he says, for the battlefield already smells of shit. But as Lyarra turns her nose to the air, she can smell nothing but the scent of rotting flesh and ash in the air.

“May the Warrior protect us all,” Ser Barristan declares. “Sound the attack.”

The gates open and hell awaits them.

Lyarra fetches sword, heavy in her hands. And with that, she is bolting through the gates.

The Dothraki horse they have given her is faster than she is used to, but in battle, it is speed she needs. The Yunkish lines are filled with bodies, rotting corpses and soldiers rearing for battle. From the saddle, they take little time to strike down – but Lyarra knows she will only have the horse for so long.

It is within four minutes that the horse is cut down, and she is flung off it. Lyarra rolls to the dirty ground, landing in mud. _Up, up, up,_ she scrambles, as a man tramples her hand. Ripping out from underneath him, Lyarra fishes out her dagger – slamming it between his ribs. He sputters in shock, but she doesn’t waste time. She can’t afford to.

It’s carnage on the field, with corpses, old and new, piling up. Men speak in a foreign tongues and a river of blood flows at her feet. Maggots crawl at her boots and so does bile, as soldiers lose their lives in a matter of minutes. Even the sky seems to bleed as the sun rises in the east, splintering the battlefield in orange and yellow.

A screech from above brings her attention to the sky, where the dragons are once again circling. In the light of the morning, they seem bigger than the sun itself – and yet while the battle rages on, they are none the wiser. Lyarra wonders if they shall rain fire down on the battle, a strike of fear cutting through her at the same time she is hit.

A Yunkishman takes her from the side, his shield digging into her arm. Words of war slip from his mouth as he grapples with his blade, but he’s too clumsy, too slow. It takes her but a moment before she has whipped around, her blade at his neck and blood rushing from the wound she created. It spouts from the cut, splashing her face through her helmet.  

The Warrior is fast; but not as fast as the Stranger.

A horn sounds through the battlefield as corpses are flung through the air once more. Lyarra watches as they hit the walls of the city, reigning Meereen in a shower of blood, maggots and organs. Gagging, Lyarra pushes through the threshold of bodies, her blade acting as her shield, as she catches sight of Slavers Bay.

As thousands lay down their lives, it seems more people are pouring into the port. Thousands of ships enter the bay, their sails adorned by the sigil of the Iron fleet. Confusion pulses through her, but it lasts only a moment before pain sets in.

Distracted, Lyarra hadn’t seen the Heron approach. He towers over her, but he needn’t use his height against her – not when he had an efficient blade. His dagger gazes her armour, before finding the flesh of her arm. Tearing at the skin, the blade rips through her muscle and sends her into a storm of pain.

The Heron offers no words when he pulls the dagger from her arm. Grabbing her by the collar of her armour, he moves to take off her helmet. Knowing death will come without it, Lyarra thrashes in his arms – her hands desperately clawing at his face. _No, no, no,_ she thinks, _I will not die on an eastern battlefield, fighting for a Queen I didn’t choose._

“Stop!” Lyarra gasps out, as blood soaks her arm. Her dagger is stuck in it’s sheaf, inches from her hand. She can’t reach it; and she knows that for all her japes, the Stranger may have finally listened.

A dragon screeches overhead, so close that it distracts the Heron for just one second. It’s enough for Lyarra to twist her hands, grabbing hold of her dagger and swinging it downwards. The blade skins his gut, but the pain in her arm is too overwhelming to drive the dagger in. It is enough to throw him off and with that, she flees.

Lyarra knows she needs to retreat if she wants to save her life. Injured and incapacitated, she will die within seconds of another attack. _Hide,_ a voice whispers, _you must hide._ With every step, Lyarra can feel her blood leaving her. Her lungs contract and her heart, thunders beneath her armour, feeling as if it will burst from her chest at any moment.

She doesn’t know how far she has run, but when the battle is no longer raging before her eyes, Lyarra can allow herself to slow. Gasping, she slumps against a hill – watching on as the battle beneath her continues.

Beneath her eyelids, the stars dance and with every blink, her breath seems to steady. Lyarra feels as if she is falling through the air, despite laying on sturdy ground. _It is the blood loss,_ she thinks, _the Maesters always said the loss of blood was as dangerous as the blade that caused it._

A breath shudders through her as her eyes close, grogginess flooding her senses. Like the dreams that plague her, her eyelids dance with a scene from above – a battle from the eye of a bird. She can see everything; even herself.

A violent shiver rips through her before Lyarra is pulled out of the day dream, a roar above echoing the pain she feels in her arm. Trembling, her fingers go to the wound – closing in on the spurting blood. _Wrap it,_ she thinks, throwing her helmet off and loosening the ties of her armour. It slumps forward, giving her just enough room to move her arm out.

Whimpers escape her as she slips her arm free, tears blurring her vision as she sees red. Her skin is stained from the blood, and her tunic is ruined. Grabbing her blade, she manages to cut the sleeve – wrapping the cloth tightly around her forearm where the wound continues to bleed.

The pain is like nothing she has ever felt, and she wonders if the blade was poisoned. She could only be so lucky.

Her eyes shut again – her vision dancing with images of the battle. She can almost feel the wind soaring through her ears, can almost taste the blood that hangs in the air. And there she is, bloodied and broken, with eyes misted over. Confusion consumes her, but the image of her body, cloudy eyed and gasping, is only getting closer.

The ground shakes, breaking her from her psychosis. Her eyes rush open and suddenly, she can feel a fire behind her – burning through her skin and setting her alight. Whipping around, Lyarra stumbles at the sight, wondering if this too is a moment of delusion.

The dragon that had been flying above is now standing before her, breathing heavily. Bronze eyes appraise her, while the colours of the sunrise fall over green scales – making them iridescent beneath the haze of orange and yellow. He is beautiful, he is monstrous. And in one breath, he could kill her.

Swallowing, Lyarra struggles to stand. The dragon’s nostrils flare at the sight of her, his teeth bared. He can smell her blood, his eyes going to her arm as she cradles it against her chest. Holding her hands up, Lyarra racks her brain for Valyrian, damning Maester Karn for making her hate the language so much.

“Rytsas,” She finally says, her voice being swallowed by the gale force wind.

The dragon blinks at her poor Valyrian, his teeth shining beneath the rising sun.

Lyarra looks down to her hands, knowing the Stranger has come. For all her taunts, and suffering, he has finally come to rob her of her last breath. _I don’t want to die,_ she realises. _I don’t want to die._ The tears come quickly and she finds herself whispering a name she doesn’t want to say.

“Robb,” She breathes, trying to picture his face. “Robb, I’m sorry.”

Lyarra raises her bloodied hands to wipe her face, before a thought strikes her. _And so the dragon bonds with his rider, through an act of fire and blood._

Stepping forward on trembling legs, Lyarra’s hands go to the cloth on her arm. Slowly, her fingers undo the makeshift bandage and she takes another step. She can feel the dragon’s breath now, humid and hot, pouring over her skin. She has never been so feverish in her life, her skin burning with each second passed and her mind losing itself. She wonders when she will be set alight – bathed in fire for the Stranger to collect her debt.

 _Dragons are nothing in the face of the Stranger,_ she decides.

With that thought, she submits, offering the only thing she can: blood.

And then the world catches fire.

* * *

In her dreams, she is flying.

In her dreams, she is burning.

In her dreams, Meereen is on fire.

In her dreams, in her dreams, in her dreams… the Stranger has yet to claim her.

* * *

Lyarra wakes in a stranger's bed.

Salt is in the air, as is smoke. 

And she is drowning in pain.

Gasping, one of her hands travels to her arm – tightly bandaged and excruciatingly bound to her chest. It throbs heartily, screaming out for her attention. She has had many injuries in the past, but this pain is visceral, overwhelming her. She tries to remember, but her mind is a scattered abyss, filled with unanswered questions and unsure memories.

“You’re awake.”

Obara is sitting in the corner of the chambers.

She is missing an eye, but still manages to wear a scowl.

“Your eye,” Lyarra tries to say, but her voice is strained. “It’s gone.”

“I didn’t realise,” Obara drawls, but her eye is glaring in Lyarra’s direction. “At least your eyes have regained their colour.”

There is relief in her odd statement, but Lyarra doesn’t have enough time to question her about it. Instead, Obara hands her a goblet of ale. “Here, this will help your throat. You’ve spent the last few nights screaming… it should be raw for a little while.”

Lyarra takes the goblet with her free hand, taking a greedy sip. The ale feels like heaven as it travels down her tortured throat, yet it doesn’t alleviate the smoke that clings to her vocal chords.

“Slow down,” Obara snaps, “or you’ll make yourself wretch.”

Ale spills down Lyarra’s lips, her throat burning. Her stomach growls for any kind of sustenance, aching in its emptiness.

“What happened?”

Obara sighs, rubbing the mutilated space where her eye should have been. It’s weeping slightly, the stitches choppy and uneven.

“We were lost on the battlefield before the Greyjoy fleet showed up,” Obara explains. “Not that we needed them by the time the dragon came.”  

Lyarra blanches.

“What are you talking about?” Memories of a hill and copper eyes flood her mind. _Rhaegal._

Obara shakes her head, disbelief in her eye. “Gods be good; you don’t remember?”

Obara doesn’t bother waiting for Lyarra’s response, instead grabbing her by her good arm and dragging her out of bed. Lyarra lets out a cry of shock, her legs stumbling beneath her as she is pulled to the window. “Look,” Obara says, “look at what you have done.”

In Slavers Bay, there is carnage.

Ship after ship lay in wreckage, the Yunkish sails burnt black and bodies strewn over the sands. Lyarra has never seen such disaster, such decimation.

“I… didn’t do this,” Lyarra says, shaking her head. She searches her memories, but comes up blank. “I couldn’t have.”

It was impossible.

And yet there is a growing rot in her gut, a swelling horror. _Fire and blood,_ it whispers, _don’t you remember?_

“It was certainly you,” Obara murmurs. “No one else would have been able to ride a dragon.”

Lyarra nearly collapses.

“ _What_ ?” Lyarra gasps. “I did **not** do that.”

Obara turns to her, her expression tormented. Angry, frustrated; disgusted. “You disappeared from the battlefield and returned on the back of a dragon. Thousands saw you.”

“I did not do this!” Lyarra snaps, her breaths coming out shorter. Panic is clawing up her throat, darkening the edges of her sight. _Fire and blood,_ it screams, _fire and blood._ “You’re lying.”

Obara throws her head back, cackling. “Because I would make up such a tale? Sorry to disappoint, Princess, but that is more Elia’s calling…” She trails off, her eye focused on the destruction. “I may be a cunt, Lyarra, but I’m no liar.”

“Obara.”

Oberyn stands at the door, his face hard. Lyarra’s eyes go from navel to nose, toes to lashes, before relief sets in. _The Stranger didn’t come for him._

Her knees buckle, although she doesn’t know whether its’ from the relief or the pain. It’s enough, however, to bring her to her knees, sliding down against the stone wall and letting out a groan of pain.

“This is why I told you to fetch me,” Oberyn snaps, his arms around her as soon as the words leave his lips. “Leave, now. I don’t even want to look at you.”

Obara lets out a scornful chuckle, her feet already taking her away from the chambers. “Don’t worry, Papa – neither do I.”

Oberyn takes her back to her bed, his lips pressing kisses to every surface available. Her cheeks, her eyelids, her forehead… her lips, her lips, her lips.

“Gods,” He cries out, his tears on her lips. “Gods, be _good_.”

Lyarra clutches at him weakly, her excursion with Obara having taken the last of her energy. But even with her exhaustion, the panic is still there – as is the image of copper eyes.

“Oberyn,” Lyarra gasps out, as he stops kissing her. “What happened?”

“So much,” Oberyn murmurs, the grief in his voice overwhelming. He looks similar to the man she had seen just days’ prior – the man wrecked by a mourning only the Stranger could bring. “And there will be time to tell you all of it.”

“I want to know now,” She cries, but her voice is being carried by her exhaustion – becoming quieter with every syllable. “Oberyn,” She breathes, “Oberyn, Obara said…”

“Sleep, now,” He murmurs, but the world has already gone black. “There will be time for that later.”

And there was.

Oberyn tells her, over plates filled with fish and berries, that Obara wasn’t lying.

“I don’t remember,” Lyarra whispers, staring at him in astonishment. The milk of the poppy has made her slightly delayed, her mind muddled with sights she doesn’t truly believe. “How can I not remember?”

This tale of a woman on the back of a dragon, commanding it to spew fire and bring carnage… it isn’t her.

“We all saw it, Lya,” Oberyn murmurs. “You disappeared, and then you were there – on the back of Rhaegal and raining fire down on the Yunkish.”

Lyarra is trying to remember; but all she can see is copper eyes.

“It was enough to end things,” Oberyn says. “The Greyjoy fleet had arrived right on time, but they needn’t do anything when you came flying in. Yunkai surrendered after that.”

Lyarra wants to wretch.

“I controlled a dragon,” Lyarra murmurs, disbelief blinding her, “and I don’t remember it.”

“If anyone had doubts about who you are,” Oberyn says, “that’s all gone now.”

“I burned people,” Lyarra breathes, meeting Oberyn's eyes. She can feel the tears on her cheeks, the sobs bursting from her throat. “And I don’t remember. _How_?”

Oberyn sighs. “After you flew Rhaegal over the bay, you circled the city for an hour or so… we worried he would take you away, mayhaps to where Drogon took Daenerys. And we had no way to stop him.”

“Eventually,” Oberyn continues, “he landed. You were slumped on his neck and he wouldn’t let anyone near him. It was chaos, and soon enough, we ended up resorting to food. Rhaegal had spent most of the night in the sky and it was obvious that he would need meat.”

“So you grabbed me when he ate?”

“Not quite,” Oberyn says. “At that point, you were still … awake. Your eyes were open but they were misted over, unseeing. I thought mayhaps the Yunkai had blinded you, but it was Ser Barristan who mentioned the Northern legends.”

Lyarra knows what he is talking about.

“A warg,” Lyarra breathes, remembering Old Nan's stories. It would explain her dreams, her visions.

Oberyn nods. “You weren’t yourself, Lyarra. You were… something else. As was Rhaegal.”

“So what did you do?”

“I called to you,” Oberyn explains, “begged you to get off the dragon.”

“Did I listen?” Lyarra asks, astonished.

Oberyn smiles ruefully. “No. But Rhaegal was distracted, and it was enough for us to knock you out. I didn’t expect to see a full grown dragon lose consciousness, either, but it seems you’re always exceeding my expectations.”

Lyarra looks to her fingers, bandaged and wrapped. They were the only evidence of Oberyn’s stories. Her skin, burned and peeling, acted as the only true memory she had at her disposal. Her stomach turns at the sight of them, the milk of the poppy churning through her system and making her numb.

A screech sounds from outside, high in the sky. It resonates deep in her chest, robbing her of her breath and threatening to pull consciousness out from under her. It sounds in her veins, a throbbing she cannot explain, and all of a sudden, she is on her feet – striding to the window for explanations.

“What _is_ that?”

“That,” Oberyn explains, “is Rhaegal.”

The sight of the green dragon in the sky is as startling as the sun at midnight. It forces her body into a state of unease – throwing every organ into disarray.

The throbbing continues, a pulse she has never felt before. Gasping, Lyarra slams her palm against her chest. It feels like she is on the back of Thunder, racing through the Wolfswood on a hunt. The speed at which her heart thuds speaks of battlefields and fear, rather than the calm she should be feeling. “What’s _happening_ to me?”

“Tyrion Lannister says you’ve bonded with Rhaegal.”

Lyarra’s head snaps up at the name Lannister.

“He is here, in Meereen,” Oberyn explains. “He arrived with Jorah Mormont, and the Second Sons. They’ve declared for Daenerys.”

“Mormont?” _My fathers bannerman._ “What is that traitor doing here?”

“He is an ally to the Queen,” Oberyn says. “He was a favourite, at one time.”

“Did she take him to her bed?”

Oberyn shrugs. “That’s not clear.”

“She shouldn’t,” Lyarra says, her body pulsing with energy foreign to her. “He evaded his duty and left his Aunt to pick up the pieces. My father would have liked his head.”

She remembers her father clearly, then. Eddard Stark had been spitting with fury at the news that the Lord of Bear Island was trading slaves. _“It is not what we do in the North,”_ He had explained, “ _and Jorah Mormont knows this.”_

But when it came time to collect Jorah’s head, he fled east. A coward, Eddard Stark had called him. But even she could see the relief in her father’s gate, when he was told he needn’t execute a man that once followed him into war. _Eddard Stark was no killer,_ she thinks, _so what does that make me?_

_A dragon._

Lyarra turns back to Rhaegal, rubbing the hole in her chest that was flaring up. She can feel the unease, the fright, and yet somehow, she knew the emotions weren’t _hers_. “How long has he been like this?”

“Since you were taken from his back,” Oberyn says. “Tyrion believes he may be … unsettled by the distance.”

“And how does Tyrion know this?” Lyarra snaps, thinking of the small man who didn’t save her. A shiver travels up her spine at the thought of his father.

“Tyrion Lannister is the most well read person in all of Westeros,” Oberyn says with a shrug. “Or at least he likes to think so.”

She closes her eyes – seeing the clouds before her. With a gasp, she realises it is not _her_ eyes, but **his.**

“I have to go see him,” Lyarra says, erratic in her behaviour. Her heart is still a beating drum, rushing like rapids in it’s panic. “He’s scared.”

Oberyn catches her arm as she passes. “It can wait. You’re still weak.”

Lyarra shakes him off. “It can’t.”

She stands before Slavers Bay in just breeches and a tunic, having run from her chambers with little thought. Her attention is on the foreign presence within her, this extra mind, this extra _heart_. It is like a fire within, burning in her chest and threatening to set her whole body alight.

Rhaegal is up above, circling them. His cries grew stronger with every step she took and now it seems he can’t control himself. Swooping down, he circles the bay once before he lands before her – breathing heavily. Steam rushes out towards her with his exhale, and she finds a comfort spread through her, a safety she has not felt in years.  

For the first time she leant her true identity, Lyarra feels at ease with herself. Gone are the doubts over her name, and the feelings of betrayal. Her bitterness still exists, but before Rhaegal, it is easy to ignore. And while she wants to step back in fear, she cannot; not when the dragon brings her a comfort she has yearned for.

“Rytsas,” She murmurs, remembering their interaction from the battlefield. It is the first thing she has been able to recall in days.

Rhaegal blinks, his copper eyes burning with comfort, before he bows his head.

Lyarra needn’t speak Valyrian to know what he wants. Striding forward, she ignores the calls to her name – mounting him as she had done days prior. She may not remember the details, but she knew this.

“Lyarra!”

The wind whips at her hair, and she barely has enough time to spot the crowd that had gathered. It doesn’t take her long to spot the dwarf with green eyes, _his eyes_.

“Sōves,” She commands, remembering what little she knew of Valyrian. And then they are flying, the clouds surrounding them.

Lyarra is glad she had taken off the sling before she left the chambers, for she is sure flying with one hand would be near impossible. Even with both arms free, it is hard to hold on – her thighs squeezing together desperately to maintain her position. And then there is the pain… she knows it was stupid to fly with such a damaged arm, but she had hoped the milk of the poppy would disguise it.

 _This will hurt later,_ Lyarra thinks, but she can’t bring herself to care – not when she is flying through the heavens. Nothing compares to it; no horse, no wheelhouse. This was beyond even her dreams, and she wonders how the Targaryens could have ever let it die. _It’s not dead now,_ she tells herself, as Rhaegal brings them down to the water. The ocean spreads out like a millpond, and she can see one of Rhaegals claws dipping into the field of blue.

Lyarra can feel the satisfaction humming deep within her – this secondary being bringing his own emotions. _Tyrion Lannister says you’ve bonded with Rhaegal,_ Oberyn had told her. She wonders how much truth there is in that statement.

She doesn’t know long they’re flying, but as soon as Lyarra imagines the pyramids, they are landing, _as if Rhaegal had heard her thoughts._ The crowd has not left – instead, it seems to have grown even larger.

Rhaegal seems content to let her dismount, his copper eyes following her with interest. She can feel his hunger then.

“He needs to be fed,” Lyarra says simply, rubbing her arm. The pain is overwhelming, but she cannot focus on it now – not when she spots Jorah Mormont.

Lyarra strides over to him, swings back and punches him straight in the jaw with her good arm. Jorah stumbles before she punches him again – this time in the gut.

When he’s finally on the floor, she snaps, “You deserted your people and left your elderly Aunt to pick up the pieces.” She kicks him. “You sold slaves in the North, against the law my father maintained.” She bends down, picking him up with her good arm. “And when it came time to answer for your crimes, you shirked responsibility and fled East.”

“Lyarra.”

“Shut up, Oberyn,” Lyarra sneers, not even bothering to look at him. The milk of the poppy in her blood is making her delirious, her balance going. “You are lucky that I am injured, Jorah Mormont, for I would gladly swing the sword in my father’s place. And you are lucky we are in the East, for if I caught you in the North, I would give you to my wolf.”

Jorah swallows. “I have dishonoured myself in many ways, Princess. I am paying penance for those sins now.”

“I care nothing for _your_ penance,” Lyarra snarls, thinking of the weary Maege Mormont. _You look like your Aunt,_ she had once said, her smile warm, her keep even warmer. “Your Aunt is working herself to an early grave because she was left Bear Island. The only penance that would pay for that is death.”

“Lyarra!” Oberyn is at her side, pulling her away. “You must stop. Rhaegal is becoming unnerved.”

Lyarra glances over her shoulder, to see Rhaegal twitching with rage. _So we feel the same._

She drops Jorah, returning to Rhaegals side. She can feel his hunger growing by the minute, her hand coming to stroke his face. “He needs food,” Lyarra says finally, feeling blood trickle down her arm, “and unless you want to be eaten by a dragon, you should leave, Ser Jorah.”

She can feel Oberyn beside her, fussing over her arm.

“It’s fine,” Lyarra murmurs, watching as Rhaegal’s nose comes down over the blood. “He likes it.”

“It’s blood,” Oberyn mutters, “and he’s a dragon. Of course he likes it.” Tearing a piece of his tunic, Oberyn wraps it around her wound, glaring wearily at the dragon before them. Lyarra can tell he wants to drag her away from Rhaegal, but she is more than happy to stay put. “That was quite the show…”

Lyarra closes her eyes, exasperated. “I don’t need a lecture, Oberyn.”

“Stop being a fool,” He snaps, “and you won’t need one.”

Lyarra looks over at him, spotting the anger. Oberyn Martell wears fury so well that sometimes, it blinds her. She struggles to look past him, this son of suns and sins. Even before a dragon, it is Oberyn that captivates her; and she wonders if it shall ever be different.

A voice within her cackles, thinking a name she won’t so utter.

“Come,” Oberyn finally says, “your arm needs to be strapped by the Maester again.”

Later, when they’re alone, his anger unravels.

“You could have died if you had fallen off Rhaegal,” Oberyn whispers, his chest heaving. “One wrong move, and the Stranger would have claimed you.”

Lyarra watches him pace from the bath, careful to keep her bandages dry. In the safety of her chambers, she can show her exhaustion. And exhausted she is.

“Do you understand how reckless it was, Lya?” He continues on. “If you had slipped… if you had fallen… gods, if you had simply hit your head or if Rhaegal had been hungrier…” He trails off, the possibilities endless.

“Rhaegal wouldn’t eat me,” Lyarra says with some assurance. In truth, she doesn’t know if he would or wouldn’t – but her gut doesn’t roll at the thought. Somehow, she knows that means something.

“But you don’t know,” Oberyn seethes. “This morning, you couldn’t remember riding Rhaegal. An hour later, you are flying.”

Lyarra shrugs, but she can understand his frustrations. A part of her is frustrated too; the logical, sane, rational part that Oberyn had come to know. _The Tywin part_ , she thinks, so bitterly twisted. But this part of her, _the dragon part,_ was years younger. It belongs to Winterfell, and Bear Island. “ _A wild girl for a wild island,”_ Maege Mormont had said, as Lyarra practiced in the yard years prior.

When she was a girl, she was reckless; _wild._ That was stripped from her the moment Tywin Lannister forced his way inside. And all of a sudden, after moons, it was back – yearning to be seen. She doesn’t want to abandon that feeling just because of Oberyn’s fear, or the uncertainty of her bond. She wants to cling to her wildness, her _Starkness_ , and by bonding to a dragon, Lyarra finally feels herself again.

But Oberyn doesn’t know her as she once was. He has only seen the victim, the girl traded and beaten. He has only seen her for her pain; not for the warrior she used to be. _I shall show him just how strong I can be._

“Oberyn,” Lyarra murmurs, the water feeling too cold around her, despite the steam that rises. “I am alive. I am well. I am safe.”

“For how long?” Oberyn asks. “When shall I have to give you up to the Stranger?”

He turns to her, tortured. In his eyes, she can see years of mourning; they are, after all, the same eyes that cried for Elia Martell. And she can see the betrayal there, heady and consuming. For all that Oberyn Martell is a great warrior, when it comes to matters of the heart, he has no shield to protect him.

Lyarra can see herself in his gaze – petulant and reckless. She has hurt him, by risking herself. She wonders how much more she will hurt him in the future.

Standing on tired legs, she gets out of the bathtub, crossing to where he stands. “Look at me,” Lyarra pleads, bringing his hand to her bare chest as she drips onto the floor. “Here is my heart. Do you feel how it beats for you?”

Oberyn closes his eyes, his face folding in fear. In all her worldly sins, this has to be the worst.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” She whispers. “But I’m here. Safe. Well. _Alive_.”

“I couldn’t find you on the battlefield,” Oberyn gasps out, tears spilling over his cheeks. This Prince could kill a man in seconds, but wept over the loss of her. The thought makes her feel too large; too evil. “I could find your blood, but I couldn’t find you.”

“Shh,” She soothes, her wet hand coming to smooth down his hair. “I’m here. I’m alive.”

“And then you were on the back of a dragon,” Oberyn whispers, his eyes of onyx swimming with his sorrow. “Slumped over and **dead**. You looked dead. You looked…”

“I’m not,” Lyarra murmurs, trying to make him see her. “Look at me, Oberyn. I’m alive.” She kisses his lips, hoping to revive him. “I’m here.” Another kiss. “I’m alive.”

“Everyone I have loved has suffered,” He whispers, his hand turning to a claw at her chest. “Everyone I have loved, the Stranger has taken. I expected him to take you too.”

“But he hasn’t,” Lyarra whispers. “I am here, and she is not, and I am sorry. But you can’t keep looking for death around every corner, Oberyn. My life will end one day and when it does, the world will continue on…”

“I could not,” Oberyn grit out, grabbing her around the waist. “Don’t you realise that?” _Don’t say it. Don’t say it._ “I _love_ you.”

Lyarra closes her eyes, her worst fear come to life. He loves her _._ And he’s not Robb.

“Then stop anticipating my death,” Lyarra whispers, her chest heaving. “I’m here, Oberyn, as are you. If you stop digging my grave for just a moment, you may be able to see me, standing before you.”

“I see you,” Oberyn breathes, his eyes flickering down to her breasts, and then to her lips. “I see you.”

He kisses her then, his grief turning into hers. _I kiss him, but love another. What sort of monster does that make me?_

* * *

They speak as if Lyarra is not there.

Plans to track down Daenerys are discussed at length, all of which detail her.

“Lyarra can ride Rhaegal now,” Tyrion says, his words earning him a glare. “She can recover her.”

Lyarra laughs at the thought.

“I’m sure the dragon Queen would be quite receptive to seeing a stranger ride one of her dragons,” Lyarra says, shaking her head. She still cannot truly look at him, his eyes only serving to haunt her. “First I shall rescue her, and then she shall kill me.”

Ser Jorah shakes his head. “Queen Daenerys is not vengeful or jealous…”

“She’s not the Maiden, either, Ser Jorah,” Lyarra snaps, still uncomfortable with him sitting so close to her – even if it is at opposite ends of a table. “You cannot paint over her flaws – not when there are witnesses.”

They all bristle at her words. _Traitor,_ some of the Unsullied whisper. She doesn’t take notice; not when they have a city to rebuild.

The men of the makeshift small council don’t bother to track her down when she begins skipping the meetings. Lyarra suspects they are relieved. For all they may claim to be progressive, no man enjoys being lectured by a woman. Every time she opens her mouth, it is met with derision and dismissal; oh, but what could a girl of seven and ten know, they must think. _I know the mind of a dragon,_ she wants to say.

Instead, Lyarra spends her days watching the skies. Rhaegal prefers the open air to the prison that is the pyramid and she doesn’t blame him. A dragon in chains must be a true sin, but that matters not to the small council. They want him back in the pyramid, out of sight, out of mind. These men who claim to support a dragon Queen do so with conditions; and those would see Rhaegal locked away.

Lyarra refuses to do their bidding – and every time they ask it of her, she disappears for a day or too. She doesn’t want to go to the dragon, this evidence of her ancestry, but she can’t keep herself away. She wants the comfort he provides, yearns for the way he makes her feel, so like the Lyarra Snow she once was.

On his back, she is not the girl made prisoner by Tywin Lannister, nor is she ill-fated sister of the King in the North. In the air, she is free from the chains that bind her, from the strings that wrap around her heart and threaten to kill her at every turn. It is liberating, to allow herself to act as she once had. _I can be Lyarra once more,_ she thinks, _wild and wilful and free._

It is that feeling that is hard to say no to. She knows she should be wary of riding a dragon, knows that it goes against everything she has learned, but it is a compulsion she must fill. And every time she succumbs to that compulsion, Rhaegal is happy to take her away. On those rides, above the mountains of Meereen and the men that would seek to rule her, she is accompanied only by the clouds – and the constant presence of Rhaegals mind.

This bond of theirs is jarring and it feels as if someone else has taken over her body. Different emotions, different thoughts, different compulsions; and they all exist within the borders of her mind, thrumming with a fire Lyarra cannot ignore. Initially, his mind was a fortress she couldn’t enter, but with each day gone, it becomes easier to see through his eyes.

Their bond is still an uncharted land, known only by few before her. Her mind is filled with thoughts of her supposed ancestors; Maegor, Viserys, Alysanne, _Aegon._ These men and women of history live in her shadow, taunting her with every ride she takes. _Fire and blood,_ they say, their smiles twisting every time she gives in to her selfish need to ride the dragon.  

But there is a part of her, a large part, that fears the sight of the dragon. _A dragon may win wars,_ she thinks, _but after the fighting is done, what shall become of him? Winterfell cannot keep a dragon. And neither can Kings Landing._

Her nights are spent with Oberyn; and her dreams are spent with Robb.

The strange dreams she once had no words for are now explained by the connection she has with Rhaegal. _A skinchanger,_ she deducts, from memories of Old Nan and Uncle Benjen. In the North, there are stories of wildlings with eyes of clouds and animals that do their bidding. The first men were said to possess the talent; and _House Stark has the blood of the first men._

Through the eyes of Ghost, Lyarra can see Robb whenever she likes. She can see Winterfell, and Sansa, and even Grey Wind too. But when she spots the sad Queen, the quaint little woman that weighs a lopsided crown of thorns, Lyarra forces herself to wake. He doesn’t love her, she tells herself. And she repeats those words, lying beside Oberyn Martell, feeling his seed warm inside her. _He doesn’t love her._

But it matters not if he loves her, for Roslin Frey is carrying a Stark heir.

It is brought up one day in the small council, when they discuss the matters of Westeros. Robb Stark, they chortle, with a Frey wife.

Lyarra stays fixed at the window, glaring out at the ocean. With her back turned, the men of Meereen can’t watch her fall apart. These men waged wars, and she wouldn’t let them see her weakness.

When they suggest that the North will bend the knee, she turns. “The North will not bend a knee to a dragon,” Lyarra says simply. “A dragon killed my grandfather and Uncle.”

Oberyn refuses to meet her eyes, his gaze solely on the parchment in front of him. She thinks he might look guilty, before dismissing the thought. _He is probably tired,_ she tells herself, knowing how they spent their time together last night.

“And your mother,” Lord Tyrion says.

Lyarra winces. “Are you saying I killed my mother, Lord Tyrion?”

Silence surrounds them.

“From one kinslayer to another…” Lord Tyrion says, raising his goblet of wine. There is a mocking smile on his mutilated face, and it makes him resemble his father. Lyarra has to look away then.

“Lord Tyrion,” Oberyn warns, finally looking up, “you are walking a fine line. Do not cross it.”

“Apologies, Blackfyre,” Lord Tyrion murmurs. “I thought my father would have gifted you with thicker skin.”

Oberyn shoots up from his seat, his nostrils flaring. “Don’t mention Tywin Lannister in her presence.”

“Oberyn,” Lyarra whispers, turning back to gaze out the window. “It’s fine.”

“See, it’s fine!” Lord Tyrion sings. “Gods, you Dornish are too hot blooded for your own good. It’s a wonder you do anything but fight and fuck.”

 _That’s all they do,_ she wants to say.

“If you do not think the North will kneel,” Ser Barristan says, his voice appeasing, “do you think your cousin will?”

Lyarra closes her eyes, her mind flooded with thoughts of him. When she opens them again, she finds Oberyn gone from the room, his footsteps sounding through the war chamber. No one takes notice of the fleeing Prince, except her. She looks after him, confused by his actions, before meeting the gaze of Ser Barristan.

“Robb may be a King, but he is no fool,” Lyarra begins. “He cares not for a crown or any sort of throne. He cares only for his people.” _And his family._

“So if push comes to shove…”

Lyarra turns around, fury rearing its ugly head. Outside, a dragon’s screech fills the skies. She may wear anger well, but her fury is nothing compared to her dragons.

“Finish that sentence, Lord Tyrion,” Lyarra snaps, “and I shall finish you.”

Ser Barristan stands. “This is a war council, not a battlefield.”

Lord Tyrion holds his hand up. “It’s quite alright, Ser Barristan – I enjoy an angry woman.”

“If you wanted an angry woman,” Lyarra sneers, “you could have gone to the nearest brothel and paid someone. To threaten the North is to threaten my kin and I shall not stand for it.”

“Lord Tyrion was not threatening anyone,” Ser Jorah says, sounding tired. “His threats go about as far as his height. You should not take him seriously.”

Lyarra turns her attention to Ser Jorah. “My biggest mistake was not taking the threats of Tywin Lannister seriously. I paid for that error in blood, Ser Jorah – and I will not make it again.”

There is a beat of silence as the men consider her words. They twitch uncomfortably, shifting their boots. She has seen it before – this tension that her pain brings. Lyarra has come to realise that any mention of her past makes people uncomfortable; robs them of their words and their sense.

But she knows she shouldn’t expect anything else. When Tywin Lannister forced himself inside her, he left a tension that will never truly leave. It exists in the corners of her mind, and sometimes, it leeks into the world, giving others a glimpse into her agony. _See this,_ it whispers, _this is what I live with._

“Lyarra,” Lord Tyrion says, finally breaking the silence. His mismatched eyes hold regret. “May I speak with you alone?”

Ser Barristan cocks his head to the side, as if to say _you don’t need to._

Lyarra sighs, and that is enough of an agreement. She leads Tyrion outside, looking out over Slavers Bay and tracking Rhaegal with her gaze.

“I have offended you.”

Lord Tyrion's tone is cautious; diplomatic.

“You sound like a Lannister when you speak like that,” Lyarra notes, her tone becoming wry. “An apology without apologising. I hate it.”

“How would you have me talk?”

Lyarra closes her eyes, her eyelids dancing with memories of Tywin and his blades. “Well, if we’re being honest,” She begins, “I would rather you not talk at all. But since you have quite the fondness for using your tongue, it seems I’m out of luck.”

Lord Tyrion sighs, coming to stand beside her. “I didn’t mean to insult you in there. Unfortunately, I have quite the talent for offending people without ever meaning to.”

“That’s a lie,” Lyarra says. “A Lannister knows the consequences of his words. Always.”

“Mayhaps,” Lord Tyrion says, “but unless you haven’t’ noticed, I am not like my brother or sister.”

“No, you’re quite like your father,” Lyarra murmurs, turning to look at him. He is surprised at the comparison, his eyebrows raising in shock. “You’re missing a few inches, but you have his mind. His ability to rule over a situation. Quite ironic, isn’t it? The child he hated most is the one most like him. Although I suppose that is usually how it works.”

Tyrion’s face is pinched with discomfort. “I am not like my father.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?”  

“Is it so hard to believe that a son may not be like his father?” Tyrion asked, meeting her gaze. “Or that a daughter may not be like her mother?”

Thoughts of a woman bleeding in her birthing bed swirl through her mind. Thoughts of a promise made, and lies told. “ _The next time we see each other; we’ll talk about your mother. I promise._ ”

“I killed him, you know,” Tyrion says, almost conversationally. “I shot him while he was shitting.”

Lyarra turns to him, her eyes wide. “You did?”

Tyrion nods, his eyes trapped on the horizon. “I had always dreamt of it. Every time he opened his mouth to diminish me, I thought ‘ _gods, I could kill him’_ … but I never truly thought I would do it.”

“And then he put you on trial…” Lyarra murmurs.

“Yes, for the murder of my beloved nephew,” Lord Tyrion sneers, before his face smooths out. “I didn’t do that, if you’re wondering.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Good,” He says with a nod. “I am not the enemy here, Lyarra. Annoying, yes; offensive, most definitely. But enemy? Not so much.”

Lyarra purses her lips, wringing her hands together. By killing his father, Tyrion had garnered an inch of respect in her mind – which is quite a lot considering his height. “In this war, everyone but kin are enemies. And in your case, even kin are not safe.”

“And will Daenerys Targaryen be kin to you?” Lord Tyrion asks. “For it seems you keep anger as your only companion. Well, that and Oberyn Martell.”

Lyarra wants to be offended by Tyrions words, but she cannot. “My blood is her blood… and if she wants me as kin, so be it.”

* * *

In the end, their plans go to waste.

Daenerys Targaryen is not one to be rescued and so when least expected, she returns.

Lyarra is sleeping when it happens – woken by battle horns.

“What’s happening?” Lyarra asks, blinking the tired from her eyes. Oberyn is standing before her, as naked as the day he was born, and pulling on some breeches.

“Someone is at the gates.”

Lyarra is out of bed, shoving on breeches and a tunic. “The Yunkai?”

“No,” Oberyn murmurs, as the horns rip through the peace once more. “This is something else.”

Lyarra is out on the terrace, looking out at the sky. She can see the Unsullied preparing for an attack beneath her, panicked chaos infusing their actions. And above them, Rhaegal cries for her.

“I’ll look from the skies,” Lyarra shouts to Oberyn, watching as Rhaegal circles the air before dropping. She closes her eyes, slipping into his mind and urging him near. _Come,_ her thoughts say, and he obliges.

The bronze eyes of the dragon before her burn with anticipation. _Come,_ they say, and it doesn’t take long before she is on his back, grasping onto the ridges of his back. Like every time before it, Lyarra prepares her stomach for the drop – and then, they’re flying.

Rounding the city, Rhaegal flies beyond the wall – and there, along the mountains, is an army.

Horses approach the city, controlled by men with braided hair and blades in hand. Wild men, men ruled by only one thing… and it doesn’t take long before Lyarra finds it.

The winds shift, the clouds part, and there she is – the dragon Queen.

Daenerys Targaryen wears vengeance like a crown and Lyarra knows whatever peace she has found is gone.

 _Fire and blood,_ are their house words. _And fire and blood there shall be._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope you guys can forgive me for leaving it on a bit of a cliff hanger! I promise that you will have all your Targaryen interaction goodness in the next chapter. 
> 
> I also want to thank you all so much for your response to the last chapter. It was very much an interlude (a desperately needed one for Lyarra) and I hope this one has a bit more action for you. 
> 
> I also just finished the final GOT episode... wow. I mean, I was sort of resigned to the episode because I had read the leaks, so I knew that *someone important* was going to die, but damnit it just felt like a cop out. And then *someone* being made ruler afterwards? That's crap! And Arya's fate? Gross girl. Go hook up with Gendry and have fun. The one great part of the episode for me was Sansa. My girl getting the recognition she so desperately deserves. All in all, I thought the episode failed to deliver in terms of tying the loose ends. The prophecies, in the end, meant fuck all and it seems all the huge plot points... were for nothing? 
> 
> I also posted a one shot alternative to the last episode if you want to check it out! It's called Oh, What A World (can you guys tell I have a huge crush on Kacey Musgraves)? 
> 
> Anyways... enjoy this chapter of the False and the Fair! I hope you get as much enjoyment reading this as I do reading your comments. Be back Monday next week for an update :) 
> 
> Song Recs for this chapter: 
> 
> Happy and Sad by Kacey Musgraves  
> Cold Little Heart by Michael Kiwanuka  
> Bothan Àirigh am Bràigh Raithneach by Julie Fowlis (a great Gaelic tune, really puts me in GOT mood).  
> Trust each other by Ramin Djawadi


	6. Fire and Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey-nonny, hey-nonny, hey-nonny-hey... 
> 
> ... The lady sat a-sewing upon a rainy day.

The dragon Queen is not what she expects.

Lyarra feels like a fraud, dressed in the skin of someone else. _A dragon,_ she thinks, looking to where Rhaegal stands behind her. He breathes heavily, his warm breath making clouds in the cold eastern air. For all that Winter may be a northern fear, it seems nothing could keep the chill from Meereen tonight. And it seems nothing can tear Rhaegal from her flank, his body curved to shield her from any potential attack.

 _He shall protect you,_ Tyrion had once claimed. _He has claimed you, just as you have claimed him._

“Lyarra Snow,” The small Queen says, her voice quiet against the wind. It snaps and snarls as if the Gods are preparing for war. “I have heard so much about you.”

Lyarra thinks of her days spent in Winterfell, of her life as a Stark, as she stares at the woman who may be kin. This woman was the last of her kind, the last of her house, and here she stood, small and young. Was this what Rhaegar Targaryen looked like? Did he have the same hair, the same stance, the same uncertainty? Was he just as lost?

Rhaegar Targaryen is a ghost at her side, nothing more than a fabled man who fell at the Trident. Yet his is the blood that runs through Lyarra’s veins; his is the breath that gave her life. _Let her see me for who I am,_ she begs his ghost, _let her see Rhaegar in me._

“Your Grace,” Lyarra replies, her voice coming out weaker than expected. She sounds _terrified_.

The woman of her nightmares, the last Targaryen dragon, was not the horrifying beast Lyarra had dreamt up. The men of Westeros spoke about the dragon Queen like they spoke of an incoming storm; volatile and chaotic. _The dragon will bring devastation,_ they whispered, when they thought no one listening, _and with it, Westeros will burn._

Yet here she stood, nothing more than a girl with an army at her back – and a dragon in her control.

Above all, this girl is beautiful. Lyarra imagines she would have been crowned the Queen of love and beauty at every tourney if she had grown up in the land she was born. _Westeros would have burned to see just one of her smiles,_ Lyarra thinks, wondering if this is how the dragon Queen will win the seven kingdoms. _Beauty is a woman’s weapon,_ she thinks, _and with just one kiss, the men of Westeros shall be enchanted._

Lyarra is not a vain person, not one to care about her beauty, but before the likes of her Aunt, she feels wrong. Her body is too scarred, her eyes too old, her hands too battle weary. She is nothing like the Queen before her, who looks more like a girl than a monarch.  Silver hair, violet eyes and a face that seems molded from marble.

“They say you are a dragon,” Daenerys says, her eyes blazing. Lyarra dares to meet them, drinking in the eyes of kin. She has never seen violet eyes before, but even she knows that they are a shade lighter than her own. _Rhaegar must have had indigo eyes_ , she tells herself, thinking of the amethyst orbs she has grown used to seeing.

“Yes,” Lyarra murmurs, “they do.”

“And it seems Rhaegal believes them,” Daenerys says, her eyebrows knitting together. Her eyes belong to the dragon she bore, and behind the confusion, lies betrayal.

Lyarra wonders if the Stranger will collect her this time – and by the looks of the army Daenerys Targaryen controlled, Lyarra had no doubt death would be quick.

“Your grace!”

Ser Barristan is euphoric at the sight of his missing Queen, dismounting his horse and taking the knee. It strikes Lyarra then that she is still standing, a subject showing insolence. But the shock is yet to wear off, the racing of her heart continuing to keep her upright.

As the others arrive, Lyarra finds herself on her knees – accompanied only by Rhaegal’s warm breath. She watches as the Queen looks over her small council, violet eyes going from man to man. They rest on Ser Jorah in the end; going from anger to betrayal to relief. But it is Rhaegal Lyarra focuses on as she kneels before the Queen. She can feel his concern pulse through her, his recognition of his brother. But if he seeks to greet his mother, he does not show it. Instead, his tail snakes around the perimeter of her body. His is a constant presence she clings to in the face of her Aunt, in the face of her House.

 _Fire and blood once ruled the world,_ she thinks, _and now we are the only two left._

* * *

In a room built for Kings, a small woman sits perched on an even smaller throne. Her hair is the colour of valyrian steel and storm clouds and her eyes … her eyes are those of a dragon.

The dragon Queen may command armies and the skies, but this room seems too large for her – too large for them all.

She stands at the sight of the approaching party; a party she has seen before. The introduction beyond the wall of Meereen is forgotten for a moment, and protocol takes place. _She is a Queen,_ Lyarra thinks, _and she needs us to see her as one._

“Your grace,” Missandei says, and they sweep into deep bows.

Oberyn pulls her down into a curtsy, and Lyarra knows she must be respectful. “ _Speaking with the king is like treading water,”_ Her father once said, his smile warm and his cheeks flush with life. “ _Insolence can make a monarch mad, my sweet, and that is something we don’t want.”_

So, Lyarra heeds the advice of her father – _uncle –_ and lowers her head. She will play the obliging bastard for a day longer if it means the Stranger could hang up his blade for a few more hours.

Oberyn speaks first, as befits his station. He offers Dorne’s allegiance as he offers his own – causally, and with too much charm. Lyarra wonders if he offered his heart with such carelessness, her own beating wildly in her chest at the thought of the man that held her until the sun broke over the mountains.

“ _All shall be well, Lya,”_ He had whispered, as the sun entered their chambers. His arms tightened around her at that moment, a shield so like Rhaegal and yet so different at the same time. “ _I shall keep you safe."_

He was lying, of course; he could protect no one in a city ruled by dragons.

At the thought of them, Lyarra feels herself slipping, her psyche seeking out the safety of Rhaegal’s fire. In the corners of her mind, she feels his presence – humming and safe. Content, even. Lyarra suspects that has something to do with the return of his brother, for she knows there is only peace in the comfort of kin. Or mayhaps that is what she hopes, standing before this stranger turned Aunt.

There is little to be found when Lyarra looks up from her thoughts and stares at the Queen. Daenerys Targaryen doesn’t look her way, nor does she acknowledge the presence of her potential kin, but Lyarra would expect nothing less. Bastards are undeserving of a monarch’s attention, although Lyarra had always found herself an exception to this rule.

King Robert had lusted after her body. King Joffrey had lusted after her blood. And Daenerys Targaryen could demand her head if she so sought it.

 _But then they would call her kinslayer,_ she thinks, _and kinslayer a King is not._

“Lyarra?”

It is the second time Daenerys Targaryen has uttered her name, and yet this time feels different. Their dragons are gone, and so is the khalasar that the Queen brought with her. They stand alone, flanked only by a few people to separate them.

“Your grace.”  

“It seems I have you to thank for the safekeeping of my city,” the Queen says, her voice soft. It is hard, at that moment, to think of this person as the woman who commanded khalasars and cities alike. She seems too soft, too young, too ignorant. But of course, she is just a girl, crowned only by the blood of others.

Lyarra wants to ask her if she has ever seen battle. _Have you seen men die,_  she wants to ask, _have you taken a life?_

For how can she ever expect to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms when she knows none of these things? The Iron Throne is not comfortable, and it requires blood to sit upon.

 _“The Iron throne turns people mad,”_ Her father once told her. “ _To keep it, you must bleed. First your purse, then your mind and finally, your body.”_

 _“Did Ser Jaime bleed?”_ She had asked.

Her father seemed angered by the question. “ _Jaime Lannister is an oathbreaker of the worst kind. By the time he bled, the war was over, as was his duty.”_

“Many people kept Meereen safe,” Lyarra says, her hands twisting at the skirts they have dressed her in. Tyene had forced her into the dreaded gown, ignoring her refusals and placing jewels at her neck. _Red and black,_ she thinks snidely, wanting to tear off the gown and throw it into the sea. _Give me grey and white. Give me Stark colours._ “I was merely one of them.”

“The only one, however, that commanded one of my dragons,” the Queen says. Her voice, once soft and unimposing, turns hard. There is a steel to her words, a bite that asks _why did you claim what was mine?_

Lyarra looks to the floor, knowing this is what she has dreaded. The anger of monarchs is to be feared, and she has seen it before. “Yes.”

“And bonded with one, according to Lord Tyrion,” She continues, her voice still cold.

“Yes.”

Daenerys nods, folding her hands in her lap. They seem too small to command dragons, too untouched. Lyarra looks down at hers in comparison, swallowing at the sight of the scars upon scars. She has the hands of a bastard; Daenerys Targaryen has the hands of a Queen. “They say it proves your parentage.”

Lyarra glares at her feet.

“As do the testimonies collected by Prince Oberyn,” the Queen says, fingering a scroll to her side. “A man named Howland Reed says he was there at the Tower of Joy. ‘ _Lyanna’,_  he writes, ' _told Lord Stark that Prince Rhaegar wanted to name the babe Visenya. Lyanna didn’t like the name and asked Ned to name her for their mother’._ ”

Daenerys looks up from the scroll, shaking her head. “It would be fitting for you to be born Visenya. Then, my brother would have had the three heads he wished for: Aegon, and his two sisters.”

Daenerys stands up, taking the other scroll with her. “This testimony is from Allyria Dayne. She writes ‘ _my sister threw herself into the sea after the death of her babe… a girl we buried in the gardens outside Starfall.’_ ”

Lyarra closes her eyes, thinking of all the times she had asked her father of Ashara Dayne. The woman had become a mother in her mind, constructed by the whispers that floated around Winter town and the stories told by Theon Greyjoy.

The first time the name had been mentioned, it had been a moment of sheer relief. To know who her mother was, to have a name, was something she treasured. While Sansa hid her jewels in a small box, and Arya hid her blades beneath her bed, Lyarra hid the truth of her mother’s name in the depths of her mind – locked behind a door she so rarely opened. Ashara Dayne was a mystery to her, but she was her mother nonetheless; a woman who had thrown herself into the sea when her babe was taken from her.

Or so Lyarra had imagined when Theon told her of the falling star. It was easy to imagine Ashara as her mother; easy to believe that her father had fallen for her beauty before falling for her heart. And while tragic, it was almost gratifying to know that her mother had been so distraught at the loss of her babe that she took her own life. _At least she cared enough to feel my absence,_ she had once thought, clutching a pillow to her chest and her mother's fate to her heart.

But it mattered not this fantasy Lyarra had once held – of a woman with Valyrian eyes who lived in a palace overlooking the summer sea. Despite all the whispers, and gossip, Ashara Dayne was not her mother. Her father had not loved her, and her mother did not feel her absence.

 _My mother bled to bear me,_ she thinks, _and my father died before ever knowing me._

It was almost easier, to believe that Ashara Dayne was her mother. To think that she was the result of a love that tore apart the seven kingdoms, and left her family fractured, was painful. The mother that bore her was in fact just a girl of six and ten, infatuated with freedom and a silver prince. And the father she thought she knew was in fact a lie, a sacrifice to the honour Eddard Stark held so dearly.

_I am made of the lies they told, and they are not even here to apologise for it._

“So, by all accounts, you are a dragonseed,” Daenerys says, coming to stand in front of her. Lyarra stands taller than her Queen, but in those eyes of violet, she can see the stature of a monarch. “My brother’s babe, wrapped in the skin of a wolf.”

“I am as Stark as I am Targaryen, your grace,” Lyarra murmurs, knowing how she must look.

Too dark, too pale, too Northern. Her hair is too unruly compared to that of her Aunts, her limbs too long, her thighs too muscular. Even her face is all wrong. Where Daenerys is petite, Lyarra is long. She has the face of Eddard Stark, after all; a melancholy face, a sad face.  

“I can see that,” Daenerys says, her lips twitching. “You are as Targaryen as my niece, Rhaenys. They say she had beautiful copper skin, and eyes as dark as her mothers. A Martell, in everything but name.” Daenerys studies Lyarra closely, her eyes a sea of grief when they come across her lips. “You look like nothing like a dragon, but your lips… they belong to my brother, Viserys. And I haven’t seen them in a very long time.”

The Queen meets her gaze then and smiles tightly. It’s a smile of worry, but a smile nevertheless. And Lyarra knows that it is a smile that could ruin a man, or a country if so desired. But beneath the gentleness of her smile, there is iron. _You may have my blood,_ it says, _but you do not have my trust._

“I am no kinslayer, Lyarra Snow,” Daenerys proclaims, “and while you may wear a bastard’s name, Westeros shall know you as a dragon when I reclaim the Iron Throne.”

Oberyn holds her tightly that night.

“She accepted me because I claimed one of her dragons,” Lyarra whispers into his skin, her hands clenched tightly so she can hide her fear. She buries it, deep within her, just as she does most other things: the grief, the loneliness, the love _._ “Not because of my father, or the testimonies, but because of Rhaegal.”

“She accepted you because it was the truth,” Oberyn soothes, rubbing circles in her back. She wants to believe him, but the lie slips through her fingers every time she goes to claim it. “She knew you were a dragon the moment she saw your eyes.”

“No,” Lyarra objects. “It was the moment she saw me on the back of Rhaegal; the moment she knew that she would have to go through one of her dragons before she could get rid of me.”

Oberyn is silent, the only sound meeting her ears the thrumming of his heart. _Believe me,_ it says, _it will be easier to just believe me._

A kiss finds her forehead, and his arms tighten around her – a cage of her own protection. “She would have to go through Dorne itself before she could harm you.”

“She has two men for every person in Dorne,” Lyarra breathes, remembering the army at her back. The khalasar had been everything the stories had promised. Just as terrifying, just as large.  

“Her paid slaves and horsemen are nothing compared to the warriors of Dorne,” Oberyn whispers, his lips coming to hers. “And if she was to slaughter every Dornishman there was, she would still have to get through me.” His lips find her neck, suckling gently. “And I would be wroth to give you up.”

His fingers come to her ribs, tickling her. She squirms uncomfortably, her laugh swallowed by his lips. A groan comes between them as his fingers go to her core, his tongue sweeping across her bottom lip as his fingers do the same thing.

“You, my sweet,” Oberyn says, parting her legs with his hand, “are not a woman to be protected, or poached. The Queen knows this.” He lines himself up, both of them hissing as he enters her. “I know this.” He starts moving, thrusting deep within her, stretching her to her capacity. “And so do the seven kingdoms.”

Lyarra throws her head back as his fingers go to that button he so loves, rubbing, and rubbing, and rubbing and… stars meet her eyes, summer rains down and she is gasping for air. Oberyn quickly follows, his coming with a shout of her name.

When she can no longer see constellations, Oberyn takes her in his arms – kissing her with yearning. _Believe me,_ it says. And she does.  

“Winter is coming, be damned,” Oberyn says, “fire and blood, too. You are a Martell, my love: _unbowed, unbent, unbroken._ Daenerys Targaryen will come to learn that soon enough.”

* * *

It takes time to realise the two dragons are avoiding each other.

Daenerys spends her days as Queen; Lyarra spends her days riding Rhaegal.

Now that the Queen has returned to Meereen, Lyarra has the freedom to snub the small council and spend her time with Rhaegal. Oberyn had begged her to reconsider when she had first told him of her decision, but Lyarra couldn’t be swayed. Stubborn, Robb had once called her; Oberyn had a few more choice words to describe her inaction.

It matters not what they think when she is flying high above Meereen on Rhaegal’s back. Her dragon does not like the city that would seek to have him chained up, and as he flies over the mountains that surround the east, Lyarra can understand why. This world of theirs is so vast, and he so large; to be trapped in something as small as a dungeon is nothing short of a sin. She says as much when the small council call for the dragons to be locked up once more.

“No,” Lyarra snaps before the Queen can open her mouth.

Daenerys stares at her with resignation – her eyes, carefully constructed to appear indifferent, holding an annoyance Lyarra hasn’t seen before.

“That is the Queen's decision,” Ser Jorah says simply, his eyes too holding the same annoyance.

Lyarra shrugs, glaring out the window. She can feel Rhaegal’s heartbeat, his fire flowing within her.  She shall not be lectured about dragons by a slave trader. “It shall be your funeral, Ser Jorah. You try chaining Rhaegal up.”

“That is reason enough!”

The men of the small council mumble their agreement, and Lyarra wants to throttle each one of them. She is sick of men on councils, making decisions for the masses. _War,_ they decide one day, _peace_ they cry the next. What did they know of dragons, she wants to scream; _what did they know of freedom_ , she thinks.

“A dragon cannot be caged, Ser Jorah,” Lyarra sneers. “Rhaegal is his own master, and he shall not be kept prisoner by the chains you seek to put on him.”

Daenerys watches her, her eyes narrowing. “The dragons pose a risk to the smallfolk. They have already killed one innocent – I shall not let them kill others.”

Lyarra feels her gut drop at the thought of an innocent person facing a dragon. _Quentyn,_ she thinks, as Rhaegal screeches from the sky.

“There must be another way,” Lyarra says, tortured. She cannot imagine feeling trapped, constantly; cannot imagine that feeling brewing inside her while Rhaegal suffers. “I can keep Rhaegal fed.”

Oberyn sighs. “You can’t prevent him from taking a life…”

“I can make sure I feed him as soon as I notice his hunger,” Lyarra says, wiping her hands on her breeches. “If you chain him up, and hold him in those dungeons, he shall become restless – despondent, even.” Lyarra looks to the Queen. “Lord Tyrion believes dragons choose their master for a reason, and Rhaegal has chosen me. Just as he protected Meereen, I shall protect him. And I am beseeching your grace to let me handle him.”

Daenerys is cold when she says, “Your bond with _my_ dragon does not protect the innocents. What you are asking could kill people.”

“A dragon cannot be owned,” Lyarra snaps, to the shock of the small council. “Rhaegal is his own being. I simply ride him.”

Daenerys stands, her violet eyes the colour of a violent sky. The tension is humid in its thickness, wrapping around the room like a python seeking to suffocate. _Careful,_ her father whispers in her ear, _a mad monarch is a monster you don’t wish to cross._ “I birthed him. I burned for him. Tell me, Lyarra Snow,” Daenerys says, “would you do the same?”

Lyarra looks out over Slavers Bay, to where Rhaegal flies. “I would keep him safe, my Queen. I would keep him free.”

“Fine,” Daenerys rules, her tone as sharp as Lyarra’s blades. “But it is on your head if he kills.”

“Thank you, your grace.”

Oberyn stares at her with fury in his gaze, and Lyarra knows she’s in trouble.

“What was that?” He asks when they’re alone, so angry it is vibrant. “Taunting the Queen when you know you are on borrowed favour.”

“I did not taunt her,” Lyarra snaps, rubbing her chest. Rhaegal is uneasy outside. _Mayhaps he feels my fear._ “If Rhaegal chose me to protect, I must protect him in turn. I would do the same thing for Ghost.”

Confusion lights Oberyn's gaze before recognition comes. “Your direwolf.”

“They said he was dead,” Lyarra says, remembering Tywin’s words. “But I have seen him, with Robb.”

Oberyn is quiet for a moment before he chuckles. “Is that what you do, when you go missing?”

Lyarra turns, confused.

“I see it, Lya,” Oberyn murmurs. “The absence of you sometimes. You just … disappear from your own eyes.”

Lyarra bites her lip. “I don’t really know how it works. I mostly do it in my sleep.”

“It lets you see the man you love,” Oberyn says, a tortured smile on his face. “is that what you do after we fuck? Visit him?”

Lyarra refuses to meet his gaze. “It happens. Sometimes.”

Oberyn's hands come to her face, his brown eyes holding a fury the seven hells were missing. “Are you ever just mine?”

He looks so tortured, so broken. Lyarra wonders why the Gods would make him love a woman who could never love him back.

“Don’t ask me that.” Lyarra shrugs him off, an accusation in her eyes as she asks, “Are you ever not Ellarias?”

“Ellaria isn’t here.”

“And neither is Robb.”

* * *

“I hate this fucking place.”

The Sand Snakes are growing restless with every passing day – and Lyarra doesn’t blame them. Meereen is a cesspit of chaos, ruled by a Queen who wants to rule somewhere else.

Missandei is always hovering, always staring. Lyarra thought at first that she was a spy, sent by the Queen to report on her every move. But now, it’s becoming clear that this was all Missandei's doing. Her observations are purely personal; perverse, mayhaps, but personal.

Usually, Missandei is good at hiding her stares. When she follows, she does so at a distance – and when she does speak, it is always with an air of caution. It is maddening _._

“I know,” Lyarra murmurs, finding it unnerving that she is agreeing with Obara Sand. But in the weeks they had spent here, the grief suffered, the uncertainty shared, a truce had been struck between them. “I do too.”

Obara snorts, adjusting her breeches, “Well, that’s something we can agree on.”

“Oberyn isn’t speaking with me,” Lyarra says, leaning against the window. The sea looks distraught today as if it too is panicking. “He thinks I offended the Queen.”

“The Dragon Queen,” Obara spits out. “Every day passed is another day lost. If she wants to claim Westeros, I don’t see what’s stopping her. Three dragons, thousands of men.”

“And no ships,” Lyarra says simply. “Well, until the Greyjoys decide to come on side.”

“And they will,” Obara says. “Victarion Greyjoy is like any other man. He wants Daenerys to promise him the Iron Islands and once that is done, we’ll be sailing out of here.”

“He wants more than Iron Islands,” Lyarra says, unease rocking through her. “Lord Tyrion says he wants a betrothal.”

Obara barks out a laugh. “That’s what every man wants. A crown and a tight fit.”

“Ladies.”

Daenerys Targaryen stands behind them, a smile on her lips. The bastards, both Sand and Snow, fall to their knees. Lyarra has the decency to look embarrassed; Obara simply smiles.

“Your grace,” They whisper, both attempting to hide their shame.  

“I was hoping to speak with you, Lyarra,” The Queen murmurs. “Mayhaps we can … go for a walk?”

The Queen is quiet by her side, an enigma wrapped in the skin of a dragon. Lyarra wonders what it must be to be a mystery to others. For all her existence brought questions, Lyarra had never been one for enigmatic wonder. Her emotions were always found on her face, like stitches in the embroidery her sister once showed off. Her fear was obvious, her desires made plain; for she was nothing but a baseborn girl, whose hurt was always assumed and whose worth was thrown away time and time again.

They arrive at the eastern corner of the pyramid, overlooking the bay and the horizon. The breeze picks up, bringing with it scents of fermented oranges and spices from the marketplace. It is here Lyarra feels most foreign; among the great pyramids and eastern people. She can’t see Winterfell any longer, cannot find any similarities to spare.

Meereen truly is a strange place, filled with strange people and strange ideals. And gods, how she hates it.

“Ser Jorah says you are a true Northern woman,” The Queen begins. “You need only the winter cloak and snow in your hair, he says, to look the part. Apart from him, I have never met a Northerner. When I was younger, my brother would tell me things about the North – about the wall, and the people that lived behind it. Lyanna Stark, he said, was a temptress and thief.” Her eyebrows pinch together. “I suppose that was a lie.”

“Many things said about Lyanna Stark were a lie,” Lyarra says simply. She hasn’t allowed herself to spend too much time thinking of the woman who lies in the crypts of Winterfell; _her mother._ Lyanna Stark was a woman of fables, not a woman who died giving birth to her. “What did your brother say about the North?”

The Queen chuckles, almost to herself more than anybody else. “Viserys liked to tell stories. Stories about our House and our mother; about Kings Landing and the North. When I was five, he would say the North was ruled by a traitorous family. When I was ten, he would say the North was ruled by undead creatures.” She laughs again. “I suppose that was his way of controlling me, through stories false and fraught. Truly, I don’t know where the truth ends and the lies begin, but it is all I have of the seven kingdoms – of my country.”

The wind lashes Lyarra’s skin, violently pulling at her thin gown. “What happened to him?”

“He died,” Daenerys responds, as cold as the wind itself. For just a moment, there is a nostalgia in the Queens' eyes – before it too is forgotten. “So what is the North really like?”

“Cold,” Lyarra tells her, leaning over the balcony. Beneath is a large drop. _Tempting,_ a voice whispers. “Winterfell is not. It has heated walls, and hearths so large they can roast a whole cow. The keep itself is huge, large enough to house an army hiding from winter storms. And then there are the crypts, where the Starks rest after their time is done.”

“You miss it?”

“I haven’t been there in years,” Lyarra says, her tone resentful. “It’s been burned since then, by Theon Greyjoy.”

Daenerys makes a noise of understanding. “So there explains your resentment towards Lord Victarion.”

“Victarion is a mummers Lord, your grace,” Lyarra says. “Greyjoys are just as their name says; grey in everything but their own self-interest. If you strike an agreement with a Greyjoy, you will find yourself betrayed.” _Or so her father said._

“As the King in the North was?”

“My two brothers – _cousins –_ were killed because Theon Greyjoy wanted his father’s approval,” Lyarra sneers, turning to face the Queen. “Bran couldn’t walk. Rickon was just a babe. And Theon Greyjoy strung them from their feet, burned them alive and let them hang from Winterfell’s walls.”

Daenerys doesn’t so much as flinch. “Is Theon Greyjoy dead?”

“I don’t know,” Lyarra says. “The Lannisters weren’t keen to keep me up to date with the news of the war.”

“Then we shall kill him,” Daenerys says, her tone resolute. “A man that kills a child is no man at all.”

For the first time, Lyarra finds herself face to face with Daenerys Stormborn. Not the Queen, not the Khaleesi; but the girl beneath the titles and the crown. The girl who thought it wrong for lords to keep slaves. The girl who thought it wrong for men to rape their women.

Lyarra pushes aside her resentment at her House, her hatred of fire and blood, and smiles.

“Yes,” Lyarra agrees, “we will.”

It is easier between them, after that day.

Trust is still fleeting, but the tension between them has mostly dissipated. Even still, whenever they speak, Daenerys does not ask for counsel. Instead, they discuss Westeros. Daenerys peppers her with questions about the North and the Riverlands, greedily drinking in the information about the kingdoms she sought to rule.

“And what of the Lannisters?” The Queen asks one day, as they feed Rhaegal. Her eyes are alight with curiosity and she seems far younger than she does when she sits atop her throne. “Lord Tyrion is not as … fearsome as my brother’s tales made out.”

“Lord Tyrion is the best of them,” Lyarra says with a shrug. “And that is not a glowing endorsement of his character, my lady.”

“With Tywin dead, who is leading the House?”

“Cersei, of course,” Lyarra says. “Ser Jaime may be the male heir, but he is just a soldier. Better yet, he is too in love with his sister to go against her.”

“It’s quite Targaryen of them,” Daenerys japes or at least Lyarra thinks it’s a jest. There is a moment of quiet before she asks the question Lyarra dreads. “There are whispers about you, as well.”

“I’m sure there are.” Lyarra shrugs, throwing Rhageal another lamb thigh. “If you want me to admit to them, you need only ask. I’m sure you know better than anyone that the truth can sometimes become lost to whispers.”

“I do,” Daenerys says with a nod. “But I don’t think these are just whispers.”

Lyarra halts, turning to face the Queen. “Would you prefer the truth or the lie? The truth is ugly and shameful, and I have only uttered it to one person. The lie is much easier to swallow.”

“I don’t deal in lies.”

“Then ask me.”

“Did you share a bed with Robb Stark?” Daenerys asks, wasting no time. The question is direct and painful.

Just the sound of his name is enough to breathe life in old memories. Callused hands grip her hips, cracked lips bruise her flesh, her name a whisper from his lips. And then there are his eyes, filled with a love she never deserved. She yearns for him, she grieves for him, she curses him.

Lyarra swallows the thought of him with one shameful word, “Yes.”

“Do you love him?”

_I have killed for him. I have lived for him. I have ruined myself for him. Love doesn’t seem enough for him._

But she answers anyway. “Yes.”

Daenerys nods, pensive for a moment before she casts an accusation her way. “What about Prince Oberyn?”

“Oberyn understands.”

The Queen purses her lips, looking out over the bay. “Be careful there,” Daenerys says, fingering one of her curls. “Love makes fools out of men.”

“Don’t worry, your grace,” Lyarra says simply. “My parents started a war for love. I shall not do the same.”

* * *

The peace between the Targaryen Queen and the Targaryen bastard is built on unsteady wood.

The stalemate they have reached, this illusion of peace, is broken by seven words.

“You may meet one more Targaryen yet,” Lord Tyrion says, explaining the tale of Young Griff and his sellsword father.

“Aegon Targaryen died in Maegor's holdfast,” Lyarra insists, shaking her head in disbelief. “Gregor Clegane murdered him. Smashed his head against a wall, before he…”

“… raped and murdered Elia Martell,” Oberyn finishes, his tone acidic. “You wait weeks to tell me my nephew may be alive?”

“It is … possible.”

Chaos erupts in the small council, man after man shouting their disbelief and outrage. But the Queen remains silent, her look pensive.

“What say you, my Queen?” Ser Jorah asks, his tone gentle as if coaxing a wild horse from the wilderness.

Daenerys Targaryen utters but one word, “Impossible,” before she flees the pyramid.

Oberyn flees too, and Lyarra follows him. She calls out to him, begging him to slow down, but he doesn’t stop for her – or anyone else. She only slows when her lungs feel ready to burst and her legs start to tremble. By that point, she has followed him into the city square – and is surrounded by small folk who say “ _dragon, dragon, dragon.”_

“Leave him alone,” Tyene says, wrapping her arm around Lyarra. She hadn’t heard the Sand snake approach. She didn’t even realise she was being followed. _Mayhaps that is the truth for Oberyn too._ “He just needs time. He always needs time when it comes to Elia.”

“Do you think it’s true, Tyene?” Lyarra asks, panting. The smallfolk are watching their interaction with curiosity, some whispering behind their hands, while others openly stare. “Do you think Aegon could live?”

“I think anything is possible,” She says, pain in her eyes and caution in her step.  

Lyarra waits in her chambers for Oberyn, ready to comfort him as she has done before. But he never comes, and as dawn breaks over the city, Lyarra is left cold and alone.

He is still nowhere to be found when she goes searching later that morning. His chambers are empty, his bed well kept and unwrinkled. His chamber pot hasn’t been used and his belongings remain untouched.

When she asks Tyene and Obara, they both have no answers.

“Leave him be,” Obara says with a wave of dismissal. It seems the eldest sand snake, for whatever peace they had reached, was always dismissing her concerns. Lyarra is used to it by now, but this nonchalance irritates her more than the others. _It’s your father,_ she wants to say, _don’t you care?_ “Your eyes will bother him too much.”

It’s a punch to the gut, and Obara knows it.

“Well, if you see him…” Lyarra trails off, already walking away before she can finish her sentence.

The sky offers no clues either and even on Rhaegal’s back, Lyarra cannot find him. She scours the city, looking for the man she has come to know in every way, only to land with no clues and no Oberyn.

“Any luck?” Tyene asks as they dine, Lyarra dirty from the day on Rhaegal and Tyene filthy from a day in the yard.

“I couldn’t see him,” is all she says, as she forgoes wine and retires to her chambers.

In all the time she has spent searching for Oberyn, she has not paid much thought to the idea of Aegon Targaryen. This brother brutally bashed and murdered, had always existed on the fringes of her mind – a small insignificant babe in a story of the war. When she had first been told the story of Elia Martell and her children, she had never so much as wept for the death of Aegon, the small Prince with silver hair.

No, her tears always belonged to Rhaenys. Some Maesters claimed she was stabbed near a hundred times; others say she died in her bed. Whatever the truth, this girl of three suffered a horrible fate – and Lyarra had always thought it so utterly wrong. “ _But she was just a girl,”_ Lyarra had wept to her father, after her lessons with Septa Mordane. “ _Why would they kill her?”_

 _“War turns the best of us into monsters,”_ Her father had said, his eyes hardening, “ _but no war could excuse the murders of babes in their beds.”_

Lyarra thinks back to all her lessons, scouring over the information she knew to be true. But then, the truth has become so foreign to her. Once a bastard of Eddard Stark, now a base born child of Rhaegar Targaryen. Once a wolf, now a dragon. The thought makes her stomach roll.

Lyarra doesn’t wait for Oberyn this night; instead, she falls asleep to thoughts of two broken babes presented to a usurper king, covered only by the red of a Lannister cloak.

When she wakes, it is to a storm outside – and a storm sitting beside her.

“Gods,” She swears, out of fright, then relief.

Lyarra is in his arms in a second, hugging him tightly and pressing kisses to his lips. “Where were you?” She asks, smoothing out the lines in Oberyn's face. “I couldn’t find you, I couldn’t…”

It’s then she notices the blood.

“Oberyn,” Lyarra whispers, “what happened?”

He shrugs her hands off.

“Have you spoken to Lord Tyrion yet?” He asks, his voice mangled. “What more does he have to say?”

Lyarra is already out of bed, hurrying to gather water and a cloth. “I haven’t spoken to him, Oberyn,” She says, sitting close to him and twisting the cloth out. “I have been looking for you.”

He moves away when she tries to clean his wounds. “You should have been speaking to him.”

He avoids her eyes as he stands, shirtless and wounded, blood dripping onto the stone floors. He looks to be straight off the battlefield, with grazes marring his beautiful copper skin and wounds swelling with every moment passed. And yet he doesn’t care about the blood – or her, it seems – for he paces with vigour and speaks with a fury.

“Aegon, alive,” He sneers. “Aegon, the nephew I buried, alive and well. Alive and well and living in the Stormlands, in the home of the man who ordered his murder.” Oberyn swings around, his face wrought with torment. “My sister saw her babe smashed against a wall before she was raped by Gregor Clegane. I know this to be true. I know this to be true…” He breaks off, wiping viciously at his eyes as tears start falling. “It’s true, isn’t it? It has to be true?”

He turns to her but avoids her eyes. “If it was a lie, what have I been grieving for? I have wept for a nephew who may not be dead, and they let me believe it.”

Oberyn lets out a roar, throwing the sink of water from the vanity. It clatters against the wall, the water sloshing over the tiles and mixing with the scarlet pain Oberyn seemed to be ignoring.

“LIARS!” He screams, his body trembling with the force of his fury. She had thought her fury was one to rival the oceans, but Oberyn’s anger was incandescent; a lightning show of the cruelest kind. “They raped her,” He bites out. “They murdered her,” He sobs. “And then they lied.”

Lyarra can do nothing but watch as Oberyn Martell crumbles before her, grief making a victim of him. No sword could bring this warrior to his knees, but the loss of his sister could rob him of breath and take away any strength he so wished to portray. _Unbowed, unbent, unbroken,_ she thinks _, what a great lie._

Lyarra crosses the room slowly, more hesitance in her step than there is when approaching a dragon. Slowly, ever so slowly, her hand wraps around his.

“They lied,” Lyarra breathes, “and you shall have your vengeance.”

He meets her eyes then – copper turned cold. “Vengeance?” He asks. “It’s all I have left. Elia… Rhaenys… _Aegon_ …”

Lyarra circles him in her embrace, hoping to shield him from his grief for just one more night. But grief was a cruel mistress, and it mattered not what she did. Oberyn would always carry the burden of his loss, just as she would always carry hers.

 _We are made of skin, and bone, and loss,_ she thinks, _our hearts, once full, are filled with the faces of ghosts._

When does it end, she wants to ask? _When will this end?_

**_It never does._ **

* * *

While Oberyn's tears run dry, his grief rages on.

After that night with the storm, he stops coming to her rooms. The first night, she explains it away as a moment of grief. The seventh night, she stops waiting for him to knock.

Unlike the absence of Robb, Lyarra is tortured by the knowledge that distance does not keep her apart from Oberyn. No, he remains close – in the halls, in the small council, in the pyramid. But he will not even spare her a glance when she stumbles into the meetings, nor will he answer when she knocks at his door late at night.

Lyarra is no fool. She knows what rejection is.

It tastes bitter in her mouth every time she thinks of it, acidic almost. And like most painful feelings, it taunts her at every corner. _He wants you no longer,_ a voice murmurs in the back of her mind. _Robb abandoned you, Oberyn cannot look at you._ Lyarra squeezes her eyes shut. _I am repulsive,_ she thinks.   

Daenerys notices the change.

“Prince Oberyn is quite obsessed with this mummer’s dragon,” She says, as they sit on her terrace.

“You think him a mummer already?” Lyarra asks, toying with the pleats in her skirts. She has forgone riding Rhaegal today; too scared of what Oberyn may see when he spots her on the back of a dragon.  

“I thought you a mummer too,” Daenerys says with a shrug of her shoulders. “If he is truly a Targaryen, he shall face the dragons – and survive. If not…”

“Being a Targaryen doesn’t make you a dragon,” Lyarra says, nursing her wine. “Quentyn had Valyrian blood and they didn’t accept him.”

Daenerys turns to her, her eyes narrowed. “Do you think him true?”

“A Prince hidden away from the world by a few that sought to protect him?” Lyarra asks, looking out over the horizon. “Stranger things have happened.” _A daughter of a hidden coupling, hidden by a man who besmirched his own honour to keep her safe._ “You don’t want it to be true?”

“If it’s true,” Daenerys says, “than my crown is a lie.”

Lyarra asks the question she knows she shouldn’t. “And if true, would you give it up?”

Daenerys doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to.

“Do you hope it’s true?” Daenerys asks. “He would be your brother.”

_I have had brothers before._

Lyarra thinks of Oberyn, and his grief. For seventeen years, he has lived with the knowledge that his sister and her two children were slaughtered, all for the sake of a throne and seven fractured kingdoms. For seventeen years, his dreams have bled with the blood of Elia Martell and her two babes. For seventeen years, he has grieved and grieved and grieved.

And still, there is no reprieve.

Time is supposed to heal wounds, yet it seems no God could heal the pain caused by loss. The loss of Elia Martell defined her brother. Without it, he would be a different man – a different Prince. And with her son alive, it would mean he would have Elia once more… or what is left of her.

Lyarra would do almost anything to have her father, alive and well. Lyarra would bleed for it. Lyarra would die for it. Lyarra would kill for it. But Eddard Stark lies in the cold, hard ground, his bones rotting with each moment passed, and his soul returned to the land it came.

In her mind, he is with Lyanna. In her mind, he is with his family. His father and his brother too. The boys as well. He would be happy, she tells herself, to be with his brother again. But Lyarra knows she would disregard that happiness in a moment if given the chance to have him once more.

 _The person I was died with him,_ she thinks, _his death butchered my soul and now I live with the remains._

“I only wish for the truth,” Lyarra says with a shrug. “Prince, or not. I just want the truth.”

Oberyn wants the truth as well; although his vision is more narrow.

“Papa wants to know everything about this boy,” Tyene says, sipping borrowed wine and eating lemon cakes. The first time Lyarra had seen them, she had thought of Sansa. Sansa, her beautiful, gentle sister. Sansa, her sister ruined by the men that sought to chain her. “The imp calls him Young Griff. ‘Says he has blue hair.”

“Blue hair doesn’t scream dragon,” Lyarra says with a shrug.

“But his eyes do,” Tyene murmurs. “Indigo eyes. Like yours, Lya.”

Lyarra bites her lip so hard iron fills her mouth. She has never seen her eyes in someone else. No one in the North, no one in the South, and no one the East had owned eyes such as hers. _My eyes belong to ghosts, and the last person to wear them rots in the ground at the Trident._

“The Queen is reluctant to believe it,” Lyarra says. “I would be too.”

“That’s no surprise.” Tyene shrugs. “But would it be so wrong, if he had survived? Think of what this could mean for Dorne.”

She means: _think of what this could mean for Oberyn._

“I have.”

Lyarra has thought of it. She’s thought of a dragon Prince, with the copper skin of his mother and the eyes of his father. She’s thought of the smiles they would give him when welcomed back to his mother’s land. Lyarra is sure Oberyn would weep at the sight of him, this nephew once lost and now found. But these thoughts, lovely and warm as they are, have a spine of steel. _Think of his smile,_ they say, _and believe the lie, but don’t weep when a mummer is found._

“At least with Aegon alive,” Tyene says, “Papa would be able to look at you again.”

Lyarra’s head snaps up.

“Is that why he’s avoiding me?”

Tyene smiles pity in her eyes and innocence in her air. In these moments, where candlelight shone on her features and her white hair was bundled back into a bun, Lyarra can see the holiness in her. “ _But of course she is divine,”_ Oberyn had once whispered. “ _Her mother was a septa._ ”

“Don’t fret, Lya. My father avoids all of us, these days,” Tyene murmurs. “He avoids Obara and I because we remind him of his sister; he avoids you because your eyes remind him of a man he wishes to forget.”

Lyarra’s hands clench her skirts, anger filling her veins. She doesn’t want Oberyn to avoid her for the sins of a man she didn’t know, wouldn’t know. Rhaegar Targaryen may lie as dust in the Trident, but he is still haunting her – his act of giving life a curse she so hates. She has never wished so much to be the bastard of Eddard Stark and some southron milkmaid. She has never wished so much to be the child of an honourable man, a decent man, and a woman she needn’t know the name of.

But she is not the daughter of Eddard Stark. And Oberyn blames her for it.

When she goes to his rooms that night, she doesn’t stop knocking.

She doesn't care if she wakes the Queen herself. Lyarra is determined to see Oberyn, to speak to him, if not to smite him.

After twenty minutes, the door cracks open.

“Lyarra.”

Her name on his tongue is a welcome downpour in a barren land. _Say it again,_ she wants to ask, _just say it one more time._

“You’ve been avoiding me,” She says, gathering up the courage of Lyarra two years younger, two years more ignorant. _Let me be her for just a moment,_ she asks the Gods, _let me be the Lyarra Snow of Bear Island, courageous enough to face a bear. Let me be the Lyarra Snow of Storm’s End, the girl who faced off with the King. Let me be unscarred and unchanged. Let me be the girl I was for just a moment if a moment is all I need._ “And I am tired of being ignored.”

She pushes open the door, her own strength surprising her. These past weeks have seen her ride Rhaegal nearly every day – and it seems dragon riding was an exercise all in itself.

Oberyn’s chambers are just as she remembers them, sparse compared to those he had at the water gardens. The only difference is the war table he has brought, covered from corner to corner in maps and correspondence.

“What is this?” Lyarra asks, going to the table. Her eyes find the letters – familiar scrawl meeting her gaze. The breath is knocked out of her, and that courage she had clung to mere moments prior goes with it. _No. No. No. No._ She hasn’t seen this hand in more than a year, not since Kings Landing, not since Tywin.

“Lya…”

“Robb?” Lyarra cries, a letter in one hand and an accusation in the other. “You have been writing _Robb?_ ”

Oberyn still does not meet her eyes.

Lyarra looks down to the letter, reading it as quickly as the rage builds. It is short, simple – and it is read plainly.

_Prince Oberyn,_

_Your news is welcome._

_When the time comes, you shall have allies._

_The North remembers it’s loyalties and we expect the same of you._

_Written with the hand of the King in the North,_

_Robb Stark._

Her rage burns through her bones, silencing everything around her. Her anger is a crazed madness, one that not even her heart can keep up with. The dragon within her is flaring, again and again, begging for blood. Her heart is tormented and as it desperately thuds in the confines of her chest, it whispers one word, over and over again: _liar, liar, liar._

Oberyn still does not meet her eyes.

“Look at me!” Lyarra screams, thrusting the letter inches from his face. “Have you been writing Robb?”

He doesn’t answer her.

“How long have you been writing to him?” Lyarra asks, desperation clawing at her skin. “Does he know about me?”

He doesn’t answer her.

“Oberyn…” Lyarra breathes, tears blinding her.

Oberyn sighs, taking the letter from her hands and crossing the room. He pours two goblets of wine – hers remains untouched. “I have been corresponding with the King in the North since I secured the peace treaty for King Joffrey.”

He takes a sip, motioning to the chair beside him. Her heart breaks open.  

“I told the King about you,” Oberyn says simply. “I told him about Howland Reed, about your mother… I told him my plans as well.”

The world tilts, her mind screaming for answers.

“I needed support,” Oberyn explains, “and I knew the King in the North would offer his support for one thing.”

He finally meets her gaze then – tortured, tormented, troubled. _Forgive me,_ they say.

“A war is not won on the battlefield,” Oberyn says, “and I needed to give Daenerys security. You provided that. Robb Stark made it clear that he would only lend his men on the condition you were made safe – taken to Dorne and hidden from Tywin Lannister. That is why he signed the peace treaty. That is why he didn’t ask for you, not that the Lannisters would have given you up.”

Her heart is bleeding and tired, begging for a reprieve, but her anger is an explosive storm, raining rage on every organ. His voice is a scream in her ears, an assault on her trust. And for all that Oberyn had made her believe he was different, she finds herself trembling with the knowledge that he is no different than any other man.

She looks to him and sees Robert Baratheon. She looks to him and sees Tywin Lannister. She looks to him and sees Eddard Stark. Men that sought to control her, men that sought to lie to her.

The space between them feels like a battlefield, full of broken promises and lies told. This man of wonder, this man of truth, is nothing of the sort; and the reality makes her innards as cold as a winters storm. He has been her savior in all of this – and he too had sought to chain her.

Her youth is gone, and all she has left is lies. Is this the trade she now deals in? Dishonesty and deception?

“I shared your bed,” She whispers, her hands turning to claws at her side. “I trusted you.”

She wants to wretch.

She wants to scream.

“And I did this for you,” Oberyn murmurs. “I could not be sure she would accept you, so I made it so she couldn’t say no. I did this for you, Lyarra. I made this deal for _you_.”

“Then why did you not tell me you were writing Robb?” Lyarra asks. “I asked you to write him, and you said it would be worthless. You said Dorne would not ask the birthplace of Lyanna Stark for help.”

“Doran said that.”

“But you supported it,” Lyarra seethes. “Why could I not know? Why could I not write to him? Why could I not…”

“I have written to Robb Stark three times while I have known you,” Oberyn says. “Each time I sent someone on horseback and by ship to deliver my messages. Ravens were too dangerous – and the information I provided was brief and careful. Never did I mention you by name, for if the letter was somehow discovered, Dorne would be swarmed by Lannister forces.”

“But you could have told me,” She says, clinging on to the betrayal as it lashes her insides. “You could have told me Robb knew.” Her breath comes out in short gasps. “You saw my desperation to write to him. You knew how I felt. And yet you ignored it, and wrote to him anyway.”

Oberyn winces, his jaw locking. She cares not for his pain though, or his comfort. _Let him feel my rage,_ she thinks, _let him feel my agony._

“I did what I had to do to keep you safe,” Oberyn replies, his tone cold. “I wasn’t going to let you write him at the risk to your safety. And I wasn’t going to tell you at the risk to your recovery.”

“My recovery?” Lyarra breathes, a hysterical laugh escaping her. “I have agonized over Robb for moons and you let me believe he thought me dead.”

“I won’t apologise for protecting you,” Oberyn says, his copper eyes meeting hers.

Lyarra wishes to be Rhaegal then. She wants to burn down the pyramid and bathe Oberyn in flames. _Look at how my fury burns for you,_ she wants to cry, _look at how you star in my anger._

“You lied to me when you promised honesty,” Lyarra whispers, pain wrapping around her lungs. “What else did you lie about?”

He grabs by the arm as she goes to flee. “I lied to protect you. I would tell a thousand lies to keep you safe.”

“You would tell a thousand lies to get me into your bed,” Lyarra sneers, watching as his face transforms with his hurt. “I thought you different, my lord, but you’re just like the rest of them. That was my mistake.”

His hand loosens.

“Don’t fret, Prince Oberyn,” Lyarra whispers, her voice as sharp as her blades, “I won’t make that mistake again.”

* * *

“Father wants to return home.”

Tyene catches Lyarra as she dismounts Rhaegal.

“He says he wants to find Aegon.”

Lyarra ignores her friend for the most part, going to grab the meat that had been left by one of the sentries. Throwing it to Rhaegal, Lyarra turns back to stare at Tyene – wondering why she is telling her this.

“Good,” Lyarra says. “He belongs in Dorne.”

“He wants you to return with us.”

Lyarra doesn’t respond.

“He has already told the Queen of our intent,” Tyene says. “We are to return to Dorne and ready our forces. Papa wants to travel to the Reach as well – see how interested they are in joining our side.”

Lyarra turns around, facing Tyene. “You’re going?”

Tyene smiles indulgently. “I have missed Westeros.”

“You have missed Dorne.” _You have missed Arianne,_ she wants to say. “I’ll miss you, Tyene.”

Her face falls, astonishment infiltrating her otherwise calm exterior. “You’re not coming?”

Lyarra turns back to her dragon. “I am needed here, Tyene.”

“Bullshit.” The cursing Sand catches her off guard, grabbing her by her gloved hand. “The Queen has a council of men and she treats you as she would a minstrel. All she wants from you is stories of Westeros – not advice or counsel.”

“And all your father needs from me is what’s between my legs,” Lyarra sneers, ripping her hand from Tyene’s. “I have made my decision, Tyene.”

“But why?” Tyene asks, confused. “Papa loves-”

“The Old Gods do not forgive lies, and neither shall I,” Lyarra snaps, her word final. “If you wish to know why you need only ask your father of his guilt. I’m sure he’ll be forthcoming.”

When Oberyn tries to speak to her at the council, she says as much.

“Why aren’t you coming to Dorne?” He asks, his fingers digging into her skin and his lips at her ear. “I know I have hurt you, but you must be realistic, Lyarra. You are in danger here.”

Lyarra meets the Queen's eyes when she shakes off his embrace and rounds the table. “You have been a great protector, Prince Oberyn,” Lyarra says, mustering up the falsest of smiles. “But I have a dragon to protect me now.”

Daenerys doesn’t question her decision; and if anything, she seems pleased Lyarra has chosen to stay with her. But there is little time to express her interest, for the Queen is battling enemies in every corner of her city, in every corner of her court, so it is no shock that she is late to notice the tension between her kin and the Dornish Prince.

“Did you quarrel?” She asks one night, her face lit only by the flames in the hearth. When they are alone like this, it is easier for Lyarra to see Daenerys for the girl she really was – rather than the crown that weighed so heavily on her head.

“Yes,” Lyarra says, for she knows there is no point in lying to her Queen. “He lied to me.”

Daenerys purses her lips. “All men are liars, rapists, and thieves of some sort. Some shall rape your purse, others will thieve your heart and some will lie for lust.” The Queen winces. “Prince Oberyn seems quite distraught.”

“Prince Oberyn is distraught because he didn’t get his way,” Lyarra says simply, poking her at her fish. “I’m sure he shall feel better once he sees his paramour again.”

"Mayhaps you should forgive him," Daenerys says. "I forgave Ser Jorah, after all." 

Lyarra offers a tight smile. "I'm not the forgiving type, my lady." 

The Queen cocks her head to the side, her eyes of violet holding secrets of their own before she changes the subject. “Tell me about the Stormlands tonight.”

And so it goes.

When it comes time for the Dornish to leave Meereen, they do so with the promise of more ships.

“We shall send our biggest fleet for you, my Queen,” Oberyn promises, kissing Daenerys’ hand and looking to the sky.

Above, Rhaegal is crying.

Lyarra pays him no mind, glaring at her boots. When Oberyn comes to stand before her, Lyarra does not accept his kisses – or his apologies.

“I wish you good fortune in the wars to come, my Prince,” Lyarra says, stepping back as he tries to grab her, “and I hope for your sake that you find the truth you’re looking for.”

Oberyn seems surprised at her civility, but it doesn’t last long.

“After all,” Lyarra says, “it is an awful feeling to be lied to.”

Lyarra doesn’t watch the Dornish fleet leave the city. Instead, she flies high above the bay, tears her only company.

* * *

For the price of the Greyjoy fleet, Victarion Greyjoy has asked for a bride.

Lyarra sits beside her Aunt as he demands a betrothal, and watches as the Queen entertains him. It matters not that she is already married to a man that currently resides in the dungeons well beneath the pyramid; nor does it matter that Daenerys Targaryen does not need a husband to rule.

Victarion Greyjoy wants a bride – and he shall risk Westeros to secure her.

Lyarra thinks it typical of a man to demand such a high price. Victarion Greyjoy is a second son, a man of little means to the Iron Islands and yet here he is, asking the hand of a woman with three dragons at her disposal. _A woman would never dream of reaching so high,_ she thinks, _for we women know what it is to be cut down._

“And so it begins,” Lord Tyrion murmurs after Victarion Greyjoy leaves the hall. Lyarra looks to him in confusion, so he elaborates, “Above all else, men enjoy the fruits of power they did not earn. The men of Westeros are no different – and as soon as you land, they shall flock to your door, with rings and crowns alike.”

Daenerys purses her lips, her expression ashen. “I would trust that a Lannister knows what it means to enjoy power they did not earn.”

In under twenty words, the Queen has assaulted Lord Tyrion's confidence – and it shows well enough on his mutilated face. Lyarra has to look away from the imp, unable to see his frustration broadcast so loudly. In the moments when Lord Tyrion wears anger, it is his father he resembles; cold and barren of warmth. In those moments, Lyarra truly hates him.

There is not much the imp can do to win the favour of the Queen, and at that moment, he seals his lips shut as the discussion moves on. Lyarra watches him with a keen eye, as his hands roll over in nervousness and his nails begin to pick at his skin. _He is not Tywin,_ she tells herself. _He is not his father._

But with anger on Tyrion's face, Tywin is all she can see. All she can hear is Tywin's breath in her ear as his blades did their work. All she can feel is his smooth hands, free of scars and hard work, forcing themselves inside of her. Her pain is a dream come to life at the sight of Tyrion Lannister, and his one green eye.

And there is little she can do to stop it.

In the Queen's resentment of Tyrion Lannister, Lyarra finds a strange kinship with the woman whose blood she shares. But there is a stark difference in their hatred of the Lannister imp. Lyarra hates him for his appearance; Daenerys hates him for all he represents.

Lyarra wonders what the Queen sees when she looks to Tyrion. _Does she see Casterly Rock_ , Lyarra thinks, _or does she see Ser Jaime ripping her father from his throne and plunging a blade into his back?_

 _She can’t see either,_ a voice whispers. _The dragon Queen knows nothing of Westeros, but stories and bones._

As soon as the Queen leaves, Tyrion is drinking.

“You should remove your tongue, Lord Tyrion,” Lyarra says, “and then mayhaps you shall win some favour.”

Lord Tyrion swallows deeply. “I don’t think I need diplomatic advice from a bastard.”

She flinches. “And I don’t think the Queen needs diplomatic advice from an _imp_.”

Lord Tyrion cocks a brow. “I am not a man to quiver at the truth, Lyarra Snow.” He takes another sip. “I may be many things, but I don’t keep delusion as a friend. So when you call me imp, or dwarf, or whatever word it may be that you seek to hurt me with, know that others have come before you. My father, my siblings, the whores that seek to fuck me, the whores that seek to avoid me… servants, courtiers, lords, ladies… and now you, a dragon, a _bastard._ ”

He offers her a grin, his smile slightly twisted from the scarring to his face. “You may be good with blades, my dear, but it takes more than petty words to scare me. I wear my flaws like armour now – and you should too.”

“It is a dangerous man that speaks of a woman’s flaws,” Ser Barristan says from beside them, watching the interaction with curious eyes.

“I can name a few if you like…” Lord Tyrion says, not bothering to wait for Lyarra’s approval. “Your scars will distract any man, your tits are relatively small and you wear a nest for hair most days.”

Lyarra lets his insults wash over her, a tide on marble rocks. “But none of your flaws can compare to your bastardy.”

She cannot hide her reaction to that word as much as the others.

“Lord Tyrion…” Ser Barristan warns.

“For good reason, Lord Tyrion,” Lyarra says, cutting off the old knight. “To be base-born is to wear shame. Neither of my parents claimed me – and instead, I wore the name of the land I was born to. A lords son would not understand it.”

“All dwarfs are bastards in their father's eyes,” Lord Tyrion murmurs.

Lyarra pushes away from the table, spilling the wine. “Your father is dead. So enjoy your name while you can, my Lord Lannister – for a bastard has no choice in the matter.”

* * *

In the end, Victarion Greyjoy doesn’t need a bride.

The man who has vied for the Queen's hand shows his own when he takes out a dragon horn and calls her children. Dragons, Lyarra has learned, will not bend to the will of man – no matter who may call them.

And Victarion Greyjoy learns that lesson the hard way.

His body is found in the morning, charred and blackened. Lyarra can barely stomach the sight of it, so horrified that she can barely move. Her body is moving before she is, spewing out bile as she closes her eyes. _Monsters,_ she thinks, _they are monsters._

 _Monsters they may be,_ a voice whispers, _but they are monsters you need._

“Do you see now?” Daenerys asks, her voice hollow. Lyarra is trying to regain her breath, her stomach cramping from its exertion. Another roll of nausea runs through her and she is vomiting again. “Freedom is well and good, but death comes with dragons.”

Lyarra turns away, unable to look at the corpse any longer. She can feel Rhaegal’s uneasiness, his nerve; she can feel it all. _And what does that make me,_ she wonders. _If I control the monsters, I must be a monster too._

“Blood is the price we pay for dragons,” Daenerys murmurs, turning away from the corpse to look at Ser Barristan. “Bury his body in the water and tell his men that their leader is dead. If they wish to join my cause, they shall be rewarded greatly.” She stops at the door, her hands coming to pick up the horn. “And tell them how he died, Ser Barristan. I want the world to know.”

In the safety of her own chambers, Lyarra weeps.

She cares not for the life of Victarion Greyjoy, but the sight of his corpse is enough to wreak havoc on her conscience. _Is this the hell we are bringing to Westeros,_ she wonders. _An endless burning for the innocents?_

Her mind goes to Robb, safe behind the walls of Winterfell. How would he fare in the face of a dragon, or would he fare at all? Wolves bowed to dragons once, but would they again? Or would Robb defend their home, like their Lord father?

Lyarra thinks back to her quarrel with Oberyn, ignoring the rush of anger and recalling the words. _The North remembers its loyalties._

She would remember, too.

Lyarra finds Daenerys in her chambers, alone and free from advisors. It’s rare to find the Queen without a companion. Ser Jorah is a shadow and Ser Barristan cautious, but it is Missandei who hovers.

She looks smaller when by herself, away from the burdens her crown promises.

“Your grace,” Lyarra murmurs.

“You did not like looking at Victarion’s body.” She turns to look at Lyarra, her lips pressed hard together. “It is hard the first time.”

“Oberyn told me what it was like…”

Guilt consumes Daenerys face – the sight so jarring Lyarra has to blink. “Quentyn. He was kind, but he tried to steal my dragons.”

“Oberyn said he wanted an adventure,” Lyarra tries to explain.  

“There is no adventure in death,” Daenerys snaps, looking back out over the bay. “When I was a girl, my brother would tell me the great stories of Westeros. He would tell me of the great victories of our House – of the knights who protected their Kings and the knights who stole their Queens.” The sun breaks over the mountains, bleeding red and purple. “I know what it means to want a story of your own. But is death the price to pay for greatness?”

“I would rather live poor than die great,” Lyarra says, “but I suppose I learned the true meaning of stories a long time ago.”

A wry smile crosses Daenerys face. “Yes, I did too. A silver-haired dragon Queen is quite a tale, but it’s not a tale anyone would wish to live.”

Silence falls between them.

“What will happen when we land in Westeros?”

Lyarra stills. “Your grace…”

“Dany,” Daenerys corrects. “Just call me Dany.”

 _Dany._ It seems too informal, too familiar. Daenerys Targaryen was not a woman to befriend, nor a woman who seemed rich in trust. Save for Ser Jorah and Missandei, Daenerys saved her true feelings for her dragons – not a bastard she had met mere months prior.

“Who will you fight for, Lyarra?”

_Robb. I will fight for Robb._

Lyarra opens her mouth to respond before Daenerys cuts her off. “I know you will be loyal to House Stark. I expect nothing less.” She moves to stand in front of Lyarra. “But you are a dragon now, Lyarra. Your father was my brother; your grandmother, my mother. You are fire made flesh and dragons do not bow to wolves or fish who seek to crown them.”

Lyarra swallows deeply. “Dany…”

“I need your loyalty,” Dany says. “My dragon has bonded himself to you and I can no longer control him. When the time comes, I need your assurance that you will be loyal.”

“When the time comes?”

“When we reach Westeros,” Dany clarifies, “when I take the Iron Throne.”

“I want no part in the Iron Throne,” Lyarra says automatically.  “I shall help you destroy the Lannisters, but what comes after matters not to me. Destroy the throne, sit on the throne, abandon the throne – do what you wish.”

“Not many people would be so quick to throw power away.”

“Not many people have seen what it truly does,” Lyarra murmurs, her chest contracting. She thinks of her grandfather and uncle, burned in the throne room. She thinks of her father, loyal to the end. And then she thinks of Robert Baratheon, the man who pursued her for the ghost he loved. When he sat on the throne, he looked more tragic than great - a usurper whose throne wasn’t comfortable.

“And you have?”

Lyarra thinks of Tywin Lannister, jade eyes and smooth hands. _Not a king,_ she thinks, _but a kingmaker._

“It’s just a chair,” She says with a shrug. “Take away the crown, and what do you have? Death and destruction. Aerys Targaryen died to keep that throne. Robert Baratheon died to get away from it.”

“Robert Baratheon was a mummers king,” Daenerys snaps. “His only claim to the throne through his grandmother, a woman sold to Storm’s End to pay the price for a broken betrothal.”

“Robert Baratheon was a warrior,” Lyarra says, “who wished for vengeance rather than victory. He wanted a wife, not a crown.”

“He wanted Lyanna Stark.” Dany takes a sip of her wine. “He went to war for a sixteen-year-old girl – and House Targaryen fell. Your father fell.”

“My father…” Lyarra trails off, her heart screaming _Eddard Stark._ “Rhaegar Targaryen was a man blinded by lust. To Westeros, he is a rapist.”

“You are proof he was not.”

“I am proof he _is_.” Lyarra laughs. “A bastard sired from a woman he kept locked in a Tower? The Lords and Ladies of the seven kingdoms will think she was forced.”

Daenerys is cold as she asks, “And will you let them believe that?”

Her words are wrapped in curiosity, a double-edged sword Lyarra cannot dodge. Her eyes, violet and blazing, say more than her words could. _Will you follow me,_ they ask, _or will you abandon me?_ “I will be a dragon for all to see, Dany, if it means Westeros can have peace.”

“There is no peace,” Daenerys mutters, “even when war is done.”

* * *

The Gods may have wreaked havoc on Westeros, but in the eyes of the seven, they are still not done.

“Margaery Tyrell has been locked up by the Faith Militant,” Lord Tyrion announces, “and her family is not happy.”

Lyarra thinks back to the thorned Queen, who stood beside her brother and wore a pretty smile. When Lyarra had first seen her that day in the throne room, she had reminded her of Cersei Lannister. They looked nothing alike, but before the iron throne, their eyes danced with the same lust – the same vicious edge.

For all that the Tyrell’s had made themselves out to be roses, Lyarra is sure Margaery is a thorn – more pain than pleasure. Beneath her pretty smiles and daring gowns, there was a steel spine; a blade more dangerous than any of the Kings preferred swords. She has always thought a woman’s will was more dangerous than any weapon, and Margaery Tyrell had more will than wisdom.

No, the wisdom belongs to Lady Olenna. Lyarra has never met the woman, but when Lord Tyrion procures a letter of her hand, she wonders how long it shall be until she does.

 _Another ally,_ she thinks, watching as Daenerys smiles. _Another House won._

“What do you make of House Tyrell?” Dany asks her hours later.

Lyarra doesn’t kid herself in thinking her Aunt truly cares about her opinion. While they may have reached an agreement, they were still strangers wrapped in the skin of kin – sharing nothing but the blood given to them by their fathers. And despite the blood they may share, Daenerys Targaryen regards her trust as her most sacred currency.

“I have only met one Tyrell.” _Loras,_ her heart aches. The man who armoured her and gave her a blade. He was kind and honourable and fitting for the tales of a great knight. But his love had died with Renly Baratheon, and last she heard, he had been injured at Dragonstone – uprooting the brother he blamed responsible for his grief.

“They say the little Queen is quite beautiful,” Dany muses. “Beauty, it seems, is all men notice when they face a woman. I wish they would tell me about her intellect, or her ambitions. Gods know I don’t need a description of how lovely her eyes are,” Dany seethes, “or how perky her bosom may be.” She curses, throwing down the letter. “I need to know if I can trust her, not fuck her.”

Lyarra huffs a chuckle. “I thought you didn’t trust anyone?”

“I trust my dragons,” Dany says, rather defensively. 

Lyarra doesn’t miss the exclusion of her own name.

“You’d be smart not to trust the Tyrell’s,” Lyarra says. “They may be lovely, but their beauty is how they distract from their greed. When I saw Margaery Tyrell in King's Landing, she reminded me of Cersei.”

Daenerys bares her teeth. “Ambitious, then?”

“Ambitious,” Lyarra muses, “and beautiful.”

“She won’t enjoy losing her crown.”

“I doubt she’d enjoy being kept prisoner by the High Sparrow either.”

A knock sounds at the door.

“My Queen,” Ser Barristan says, holding up a letter. “News from Dorne.”

Lyarra leaves the chambers, with the news of more ships coming to Meereen. _A sign of our allegiance,_ Prince Doran wrote, _and Lady Olenna’s generosity._

In Meereen, time passes relatively slow.

Obara hates it and says as much whenever she manages to take a breath.

“This place is a vipers nest,” She sneers, as Lyarra tends to Rhaegal. Obara keeps her distance from the beast, eyeing the dragon warily. Lyarra truly doesn’t know why the eldest Sand Snake had stayed, and in all truth, she wished she hadn’t. “All the small council does is bicker. I feel like I am in an orphanage rather than a fucking pyramid.”

“Don’t hold back now,” Lyarra mutters, holding out a piece of meat for her dragon. Rhaegal is restless today, mirroring her own uneasiness.

Obara continues to rant. “I thought the war was supposed to be interesting. One battle is all I’ve seen – and a whole lot of bullshit in between.”

“And dragons,” Lyarra japes. “Don’t forget the dragons.”

Obara mumbles something under her breath, spitting out her cousin’s name with fresh grief. “How could I? All I see is dragons, dragons and more fucking dragons.”

A screech sounds from the pyramid furthest from them, where Drogon and Viserion reside. They had come to an agreement of sorts after Victarion’s body was found. The dragons were to be exercised for a number of hours during the day and locked up at night. The thought of Rhaegal locked up makes Lyarra’s stomach turn, but she knows the risk that would come at his freedom.

“Don’t fret, Obara,” Lyarra says, running her hand over Rhaegal’s scales. He pushes his head into her hand, his eyes closing slightly. “I doubt we shall be here for another moon. Your father is sending more ships – and so is the Reach.”

“I wonder if he’s found Aegon yet.” Lyarra smiles at Rhaegal, a chuckle escaping her as he pushes at her hand greedily. “Do you think he’s real? This man claiming to be Aegon?”

Lyarra shrugs. “Oberyn seemed to think so.”

“My father is smart,” Obara murmurs, “but blinded by his grief. At this point, he’d rather believe a lie than the truth, if it meant his sister was alive somehow.”

Lyarra turns away from Rhaegal, facing the Sand Snake. “What does it matter if he’s real or not? He has an army at his back, and if he turns out to be a fake, Daenerys shall claim his men.”

“That is not how war works,” Obara warns. “If those men are following him already, it means they do not care if he’s real or not.”

“Or it means they’ve been fooled by his silver hair and Valyrian eyes.”

Obara purses her lips, a sombreness coming over her. Since the battle, her face has lost the light it once carried – her lack of an eye robbing her of more than just appearance. “It means that blood means nothing anymore. It means that when Daenerys Targaryen takes Westeros and declares herself the rightful Queen, people shall not care.”

Obara shakes her head. “I used to think blood mattered. I used to think parentage mattered. But what does anything matter when dragons are no longer divine and you can pick your own King?”

“They follow him because of his name,” Lyarra dismisses. “If he was just Young Griff, they wouldn’t dare to raise arms.”

“Is it so wrong,” Obara muses, “to raise arms for someone of your own choice? Forget bloodlines, and dragons, and all the rest – we’d have a King of our own choosing.”

“And you’d have a disaster on the horizon,” Lyarra snaps. “There is a reason Kings are bred and not made. The Iron Throne is uncomfortable a chair, and not everyone can sit in it. Power, people forget, turns even the greatest men into monsters.”

Lyarra turns away, looking back to Rhaegal. He is studying her, contemplative. She cocks a brow, her reflection staring back at her in his large copper eyes.

“Power does not ruin every man,” Obara says, cutting through the silence. “It hasn’t ruined my father, nor yours.”

Lyarra lets out a hysterical giggle. “My father was ruined by power as much as any other man. What do you think happened to him, Obara? It was the  _King's command_  that took his head from his shoulders. And it was my father’s sword that carried out the sentence.” Lyarra shakes herself out of her grief, forbidding herself from becoming lost to it. “He may not have lost to his own greed, but my father lost to another’s.”

Lyarra lets out a breath, shaking her head as she mounts Rhaegal. From his back, she whispers, “Robert Baratheon was his friend, and not even he could save my father from his own throne.”

And then, she is flying.

* * *

The ships arrive and with them, a decision is finally made.

“It’s time,” The Queen announces, looking out over the full bay. “Westeros is waiting.”

Lyarra wants to argue that Westeros waits for no one, not even a dragon. In the time Daenerys has spent making her decision, Hizdahr zo Loraq had been executed, Tommen Baratheon had managed to find an unholy balance with the faith militant – and the King in the North had apparently hosted Stannis Baratheon.

“Oberyn writes that Robb Stark shall not acknowledge any King in the South,” Dany had raged, when she had received news from Westeros. “That he refused on the basis of the North’s independence, but gave his army sanctuary in the North.”

“The North bows to no one,” Lyarra had shot back, “and neither will Robb.”

“He will bow for a dragon,” Daenerys says, “as will Aegon.”

That is something Lyarra could not argue with.

“What shall happen to Meereen?” Lyarra asks Lord Tyrion.

“The Queen has decided to appoint a council,” Lord Tyrion says, “headed by Skahaz mo Kandaq.”

“Leave a man to rule a roost, you may find it well kept and fine,” Lyarra recites, the old phrase coming to mind, “but leave a council of men to a city, and you shall find chaos rules divine.”

“I did not expect Lord Eddard Stark to teach his bastard much of the complexities of monarchy,” Lord Tyrion muses.

“He didn’t,” Lyarra says with a shrug. “Maege Mormont did.”

“Ah,” Lord Tyrion hums, “I forgot you fostered with the Ladies of Bear Island. Tell me, is that where you learned the ways of womanhood? Or did Renly Baratheon teach you that?”

“Lady Mormont taught me what it was to be a warrior,” Lyarra snaps. “Not that you would know much about that.”

Lord Tyrion tuts. “I have the scars to prove my sacrifice. More scars than most knights.”

“A knight without scars is no knight at all,” Lyarra sneers, “mayhaps that is why your brother lost his hand.”

“Oh, I do hate when you get snarky,” He comments. “It softens me within seconds.”

“Good,” Lyarra scoffs, “a hard Lannister is a Lannister no one wants.”

“Wrong,” Lord Tyrion says, suddenly serious. “It is Cersei Lannister no one wants.”

Obara finds her before they are to set sail.

“Are you ready to return?” Obara asks, her one eye narrowed and certain. Rhaegal stands beside her, twitching with eagerness. Already, Viserion and Drogon have taken to the skies – flying high above the city that sought to imprison them. _Westeros shall be no different,_ she thinks, the all too familiar war raging within her.

Lyarra looks over the city she has come to know, feeling all so different to the girl that arrived moons prior. Grief-stricken, broken… Lyarra wonders who she is now. _A dragon,_ a voice whispers. _A monster._

“Westeros is waiting,” Lyarra whispers, mounting Rhaegal. “And so is he.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, you guys really outdid yourselves on the last chapter! I read each and every comment with such a huge smile on my face - it honestly makes my day to read your comments and response to the story. 
> 
> A lot of people are hoping to see Lyarra and Dany become very close. The issue with that is these are both women who have been through extreme amounts of trauma. They don't trust easily... but that will in time. 
> 
> Please don't hate me for making their relationship hard at first. Writing ease is not fun for me - angst is so much more interesting, and so much more realistic. 
> 
> To answer a question, I have no intent on making Dany a 'mad Queen'. I just don't like eroding away the complexities of trauma, grief and power - and calling it insanity. That's not my shtick. 
> 
> I'm so HAPPY people enjoyed the dragon bonding. 
> 
> To the people that picked up on the fact that the dragon returns Lyarra to her 'wild, willful nature', thank you! That was 100% my intent. Lyarra was reborn the day she bonded with Rhaegal... and that is really important to remember. 
> 
> In terms of those who want a Robb/Lya, or an Oberyn/Lya... let me know what you think after this chapter. I have no confusion about who Lya is going to end up with but I'm always interested to see what you guys think :) 
> 
> Just to clear some things up, this story is very much a mixture of the book and tv show. I'm leaning more towards the books at this point, but there will be things or quotes that I take from the show. Don't worry, I'm not going to touch that ending! 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy this chapter and I can't wait to read what you think of this one! Dorne awaits - and so does Westeros! 
> 
> Also, sorry if there are mistakes in this chapter - editing is the bane of my existence and I also have a full-time job. So... some mistakes are just gonna have to slide. 
> 
> Song Recs for this chapter: 
> 
> Breathin' by Arianna Grande  
> In my Room by Beach Boys  
> Holy by King Princess  
> The Last of the Starks by Ramin Djawadi


	7. The Seven Kingdoms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Born amidst salt and smoke, beneath a bleeding star. I know the prophecy. Not that I would trust it." 
> 
> \--- Marwyn

When Lyarra Snow was a girl, her Uncle Benjen made her promise one thing.

“ _Winterfell is just one corner of the world, Lya,"_ He had murmured, his breath coming out hard and fast. They had been riding through the wolfswood, on the occasion of her tenth name day. Her Uncle had ridden two days just to see her, as he always did. Her name days may not have been celebrated with feasts or celebrations, but her Uncle Benjen would always travel to Winterfell to toast her birth. “ _One day, you shall see every part of it.”_

 _“Don’t be silly, Uncle Benjen,"_ Lyarra said. " _I d_ _on’t want to go South! It is full of southron knights, and golden princes, and stupid tourneys. I want to go to the wall and see the Night's Watch, not dress up in silks.”_

Her Uncle had smiled widely, shaking his head. “ _You don’t even want to see a tourney? When I was your age, it was all I wished to see.”_

 _“Papa says Tourneys are not for the North,”_ Lyarra said. “ _And I am a Snow, a natural daughter of the North.”_

Benjen chuckled. “ _You are the daughter of House Stark, Lya, not the daughter of the North. And besides, a daughter of the North can still enjoy southron traditions. I know your father enjoyed them once.”_

 _“Papa?”_ Lyarra laughed, the thought unbelievable. “ _He is so serious! He wouldn’t truly care for jousts, not even when he was my age.”_

 _“There was a time when he did,”_ Uncle Benjen said. “ _He’s too busy being a snooty Lord now to care.”_

Lyarra had giggled. “ _Papa isn’t snooty, Uncle Benjen. He’s …”_ She trailed off, trying to remember the word, “… _solemn.”_

Benjen had let out a roar of a laugh. “ _And who taught you that? Was it Ned? Or was it Lady Catelyn?”_

 _“It was Septa Mordane.”_ Lyarra groaned. “ _I hate her.”_

 _“Aye, I’d imagine so.”_ Uncle Benjen had grinned. “ _When I was a boy, and Lyanna a girl, we would make a game of avoiding her Septa. She would play Danny Flint, and I would be the wildling. And when the Septa would catch us, we would promise each other that one day, we would travel to the Wall – free of Septa's and Maesters and all the rest.”_

_“There is nowhere in the world free of Septa's and Maesters!”_

_“Oh, silly, of course there is,”_ Uncle Benjen said. “ _And when you are old enough to travel, you shall see it all. Promise me.”_

_“Promise you what?”_

_“Promise me that you shall travel,”_ Uncle Benjen said, his smile dampening. “ _Promise me that you shall have an adventure, greater than all the rest. Promise me, Lya.”_

There was something in his eyes, a longing he always adopted when he looked at her.

“ _I promise,”_ Lyarra said, and she had.

In all her years, Lyarra had never thought she’d make good on that promise. It took tragedy and dragons for the promise to be fulfilled – and Lyarra wanted nothing but to tell him. _Look, Uncle Benjen,_ she thinks, _look where I am._

But Benjen Stark has been missing for years, almost as long as her father had been dead.

From the air, Dorne is a sea of sand – with castles of red stone and forests of palms. It is something out of a story, a song told of Nymeria and her war. In these deserts, men had perished and the fire had blazed, so different from the snow-covered lands she hailed. These were the lands of slain Princesses and poisoned spears; of vipers and dragons alike.

There is beauty in these lands, but it is hidden by the pain it holds.

 _These are the lands that birthed a bastard of Rhaegar Targaryen,_ she thinks, _and killed Lyanna Stark._

Lyarra wonders how her father could stand it. Eddard Stark loved his sister enough to risk his honour, and instead of bringing her home, he found a corpse and a secret.

 _“Starks don’t do well in the South,”_ Her father once said. “ _All the South can bring is blood and death.”_

And how right he was.

The wind whips at her face as Rhaegal flies through the clouds, diving between wisps of white and blue fields. Unlike the seas, there is no water here to drown her. The wind is the only tide the sky knows, and the sun is its master – commanding armies of rain when need be. But today, the sun shows no anger or rage; instead, smiling down on them with a heat so rare to find these days.

From the sky, she can understand why so many gaze upwards – wondering of the Gods they knew not. For how could such beauty exist, if there were no Gods to create it?

 _Knowing beauty does not stop the Gods from taking it away,_ she thinks, her heart aching at all that she has lost. _Father. Renly. Bran. Rickon._

A horn sounds, so loud she can hear it from the air when Rhaegal starts his descent.

Dorne is just how she remembers it; a barren land filled with copper skinned Rhoynar. They are proud people, and when they see a dragon, their pride flees as do their feet. Even the Dornish cannot bear the sight of the monsters of the sky, and as she watches them scramble, she doesn’t blame them.

Rhaegal lands in a large field, dust rising as his wings spread wide. She hasn’t seen land in weeks, the seas having been as tumultuous as they were cruel. Lyarra decides _never again_ as she dismounts, breathing in the lack of salt in the air and craving the feel of the hard ground beneath her boots.

Digging into her leathers, Lyarra throws Rhaegal a slice of meat. He is weary from the flight, and his exhaustion pours through her like blood from an open wound. Even still, he does not rest. His ridges remain upright, and his eyes narrow into slits, swinging around to face enemies he may yet meet.

“Kelītīs,” Lyarra murmurs, her gloved hand coming to stroke Rhaegal. “There is no danger yet, Rhae.”

Lyarra pulls her braid over her shoulder, turning to face the party that awaits. She can see the Queen there already, surrounded by her warriors and sworn swords. And behind, Lyarra can see the man they have spoken of for moons.

Aegon Targaryen.

Sighing, Lyarra starts her walk forward – ignoring the looks and the judgments of the Dornish who wait.

Aegon Targaryen is beautiful, and so painfully Targaryen she cannot stand it. He wears armour of dragon scales, his silver hair long and free. It is the eyes that capture her, indigo and similar. They are the eyes she has seen in her reflection a million times since she was a babe; the eyes that made her different from the family she thought she knew.  

She doesn’t stumble at the sight of her blood in front of her, nor does she halt in her walk. Lyarra Snow has fought men, slavers, and bastards too – she had no room in her heart to fear a dragonseed, true or not.

Oberyn stands tall by the side of his nephew, his eyes appraising her. She does not meet them, nor will she. _I will not be distracted by the eyes of a liar._

And so she comes to a halt, standing beside the Queen. They are a sight to behold, she imagines; the raven-haired bastard and the white-haired Queen bound together by nothing but the blood they share and the dragons they ride.

“Aegon Targaryen,” Daenerys announces, “or so they say.”

“Or so they say.” Aegon grins, inclining his head. “Your Grace.” His eyes turn to Lyarra. “Sister.”

“My name is Lyarra Snow,” She murmurs, her tongue as deadly as her blade. “That is the name you shall call me, Aegon Targaryen. Or is it Griff?”

Aegon’s grin is blinding, and it strikes her similar to someone else she knows. Lyarra glances to Oberyn, feeling her annoyance bloom.

“His name is Aegon Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone,” The man beside him snipes.

“And you are Jon Connington?” Lyarra asks, turning her eyes on him. The man flinches at the sight, nodding assent. “Does my face offend you, my Lord?”

“Not as much as mine does,” Aegon explains, patting the shoulder of his companion. “We both have the look of our father, Lady Lyarra. Jon was quite a good friend, which is why he took me in and raised me as his own.”

“A kindness, I’m sure,” Lyarra replies, glancing to Daenerys, who is watching their interaction with a careful eye. “A kindness indeed, to take in a Prince who was thought murdered.”

“You see his eyes, Lya,” Oberyn murmurs, his tone begging. “You see his hair.”

“Shut up,” Lyarra snaps, turning her eyes to Oberyn. She can see his regret tearing at his face, his desperation for forgiveness. It drives her mad. “I don’t care what you think.”

“Lyarra,” Daenerys warns. “There is little time for bickering.”

 _There is always time for bickering,_ Lyarra thinks, _you have proven that._

“There is all the time in the world, my Queen,” Aegon says, glancing behind the women of House Targaryen to the three dragons that guard them. “But I think your dragons are growing restless.”

“Not yet,” Lyarra says, looking to Daenerys. “We would feel it.”

Prince Doran speaks from the chair they have placed him in, gout keeping him confined. “Then let us have the true test.”

Daenerys cocks a brow. “You would have a man you think your nephew face a dragon?”

“I would have my nephew face the truth,” Doran says, his voice tilting. “If it suits your grace.”

Aegon does not buck at the suggestion of dragons. Instead, he seems to bay for such a thing – his grin wider than before and his cheeks flushing with readiness. She wonders if he would be so eager to face them if he had seen what became of Victarion Greyjoy, or Quentyn Martell.

_He is just another boy wanting to become a hero._

“You would have your nephew face the same fate as your son?” Lyarra asks, cocking a brow. She thinks it unimaginably cruel, but Prince Doran has never been anything but a cold old man. “I knew you were a sadist, Doran, but I never thought you’d be so blatant about it.”

A laugh escapes the woman by Prince Doran’s side. Arianne is striking in her beauty, dressed in a gown of orange silks and a crown of daisies. If Lyarra were a man, she would think Arianne Martell the finest woman in Westeros. But Lyarra was not a man, and she had been reminded of such at every corner.

Even with her beauty, there is a shadow that hangs over Arianne Martell. It is a cloud Lyarra knows well – the Strangers mark. Grief, it seems, would claim every person in Westeros yet to be touched.

“I don’t mind facing a dragon,” Aegon says with a shrug. “I have been waiting all my life.”

Daenerys purses her lips, glancing over her shoulders. The dragons are growing wearier with the minute, their exhaustion palpable. The people that have come to watch the dragon Queen and the Dornish treat stare at them as they would stare at the gods themselves. _Mayhaps they are the gods, and we just the people who think to control them._

“If you have dragon blood, they shall recognise you,” Daenerys says with a nod, turning her back on the Dornish.

“And if I don’t?” Aegon asks as the Queen calls Viserion forward.  

Lyarra swallows her fear. “You will burn.”

If the Dornish are afraid for the boy they think blood, they do not show their fear. Lyarra thinks it foolish to be so brave in the face of dragons. Even she, a dragon rider, knew to be scared of them. And while Rhaegal may live inside her, invading her mind and heart, Lyarra knows enough to fear him.

Fire is death and they are fire made flesh. For all Daenerys may call herself a dragon, she was nothing compared to the monsters she birthed. And for all this Aegon may think himself a Targaryen, he was nothing when facing down the dragons he hoped to emulate. _Look at them,_ she wants to say, _and see them for the carnage they bring._

Lyarra waits for the blaze to start, the fire to reign down. But when Viserion lands before the pauper who claims to be a Prince, he does not breathe fire or bring death. Instead, he blinks hard, exhales a long breath and watches.

He watches, as Aegon Targaryen procures a blade, and cuts open his hand.

“No,” Lyarra breathes, moving to stop it… but it is too late.

Aegon Targaryen has given Viserion fire and blood; and in front of the eyes of the world, proves himself to be the dragon he says he is.

* * *

“How many more Targaryen’s can I expect to find?” Daenerys asks, her violet eyes cold and murderous. “All my life, my brother told me it was the two of us – the last of the dragons, the last of our House. Viserys is gone, and in his place is a bastard born in a Dornish tower, and a Prince raised as a Tyroshi beggar.”

“He may not be a Targaryen,” Lyarra says, doubtful of his claims. Oberyn may believe him to be his true nephew, but she had done the calculations, had scoured her history books. _There is no possible way that he is true._  “Dragonseeds have tamed dragons before.”

“By that logic, neither are you,” Daenerys snarls, pacing the length of her chamber. Lyarra doesn’t know why the Queen had called for her, and not Missandei. She knows she still doesn’t trust her, nor had she truly forgiven her for stealing one of her dragons. Lyarra can see the resentment every time they speak, can feel the distance between them.

“The difference is I do not want a crown, and he does.” Lyarra stands, feeling too constrained in her dornish silks. It has been moons since she was last constricted to such material, forced to be a lady she was not and play a role she cared nothing for. Once, she would have loved the sight of the lilac lace – but now, she is a woman grown, war-worn and battle weary. Gowns no longer have the same appeal, especially when they prove fatal in a battle. “The Dornish have accepted him, that much is obvious.”

“Yes, thank you for that little show out there,” Daenerys snaps. “I truly wished for my niece to scold the ruling Prince of Dorne and bicker with a man she once bedded.”

“I am a bastard, my Queen,” Lyarra says, recalling the words of Catelyn Stark. The Lady of Winterfell had always lectured her children on the perils of bastards and what they brought to a keep. “You can’t expect much else.”

“That may work on Northerners, but I care nothing for it,” Daenerys murmurs, turning to face her. “We can’t have anger between us anymore. Not when Aegon is there, waiting for me to fall on some sword and give him my crown. With Viserion under his command, I have no control.”

“Viserion is still loyal to you,” Lyarra says. “He may be bonded to Aegon, but he shall never turn his fire on you.”

“We don’t know that.”

“In any case,” Lyarra murmurs, “I don’t think Aegon wants much of a crown at the moment. I think he’d rather a bride.”

“Lucky for me that I have recently been made a widow,” Daenerys mutters, spitting out her words. “I wear a crown, and still, I must marry to gain favour. Sold to Drogo, traded to Hizdohr and willingly offered to Aegon.”

Lyarra shrugs. “Mayhaps he shall go the way of your other husbands.”

“Careful,” Daenerys says. “That is not a prophecy I wish made.”

“Good thing I am not a seer,” Lyarra mutters, picking at her nails.

The silence weighs heavy between them; a vast chasm neither seems keen to cross. Daenerys looks out over the Dornish city with rage as her only companion, and Lyarra thinks it awfully unfair that she had to pay the price for her crown. First, it was the Dothraki warlord, and then Hizdohr, a man who would rather poison his wife than lay with her.

 _Marriage is the price we women pay for power,_ she thinks, her stomach rolling at the thought. _Robb paid for it too, in the form of Roslin Frey. A bride for a bridge._

“If I marry him, there will be confusion,” Daenerys murmurs. “I am the Queen, but some will say he is the rightful King. Who shall make the decisions? Who shall sit upon the Iron Throne?”

“Those are matters for after the war.” Lyarra shrugs. “There is still a city to capture, armies to overthrow. We can bicker for moons about who shall sit in that ghastly chair, but it’ll be for naught if we lose this war. Make it a problem for later, Dany.” Lyarra shoots her Aunt a cautious smile. “He might even love you by wars end. And men in love will do foolish things… mayhaps even give up a crown.”

“I know what men in love do,” Daenerys murmurs, before turning on her. “As do you.”

Oberyn stares at her with abandon when the small council meets. He doesn’t try to shield his fascination, nor his attempts to get close to her. When he tries to shift seats, Lyarra moves to sit next to Lord Tyrion – ignoring the wry grin that spreads across the imps face as he places a hand on her thigh.

“Never thought I’d see the day where a woman preferred a Lannister over a Martell,” Tyrion sings, squeezing her knee.

“Remove your hand, imp,” Lyarra sneers, “or lose it.”

Jon Connington clears his throat, annoyance clear on his face. “This is no time for japes or threats.”

Lyarra scoffs. “You have never truly been part of a small council then, Lord Jon. Jape and jest is all they do, and when they run out of liveliness, it is threats they resort to.”

Jon sneers. “I was Hand of the King. I attended Aerys and Rhaegar Targaryen in many a meeting, child.”

“And I have attended the King in the North, and Queen Daenerys in _many a meeting_ ,” Lyarra snaps. “I know my histories, my lord. Aerys dismissed you from his side after the Battle of the Bells and then Rhaegar Targaryen fell at the Trident. For all your role as Hand, the King you served is now dead – and his House destroyed.”

Lord Jon shoots up, his nostrils flaring. His gloved hands clench, and his eyes hold accusations he needn’t say.

“His House is not destroyed,” Aegon says from beside his mentor. “Not yet, at least.” He places a placating hand on Lord Jon’s shoulder, smiling tightly. “We should have peace in our small council, friends. We have enemies at every corner, after all. Let's not make more here.”

“Don’t you know, Aegon,” Lyarra mutters, “that our closest allies make for our greatest enemies?”

Aegon grins as if he is thrilled by the acknowledgment. “Do you know much of war, Lady Lyarra?”

“Enough.” Lyarra shrugs. “And I am no lady, Aegon. Just a bastard.”

“A Targaryen bastard,” Aegon murmurs, his eyes glowing. “My sister.”

“Siblings are a dangerous thing to have, Aegon,” Lyarra says, sneaking a glance at Tyrion. “Ask Lord Lannister if you don’t believe me.”

“Truly horrible things,” Tyrion muses. “More trouble than they’re worth.”

“Agreed,” Daenerys says, marking her entrance. She is dressed in a gown of dornish silks, red and beautiful. Aegon’s eyes travel to his Aunt, from her intricately braided silver hair to her folded hands, adorned by rings of silver and iron. The small council rises at the sight of her. “There are matters to discuss. Let’s not waste time.”

And so negotiations begin.

Lyarra sits back as the men make decisions that could ruin Westeros, or revive it. When the issue of Cersei Lannister is raised, Doran Martell simply laughs – and says the whole of Kings Landing has seen her for what she is. When he elaborates, Lyarra finds justice is not as sweet as she so wished it.

“Being forced to parade naked through the streets is no justice, Prince Doran,” Lyarra says. “The only justice worth mentioning is the moment she falls on a sword. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“I thought news of her humiliation would please you.”

“Half of Kings Landing has seen Cersei Lannister naked,” Lyarra snaps, her old animosity flaring up. “It is not an achievement, Prince Doran. It’s a stalemate.”

“Stalemate?” Lord Tyrion echoes. “The faith militant has brought chaos to Kings Landing, one that not even my sister can control. There is one thing higher than the crown: and that is the faith. People will forsake their king if it means the Gods will smile down on them, and bring a summer they can feel. The people of Kings Landing have been living in a battlefield for years, ever since Ned Stark lost his head. They shall follow the faith – and despite all the wars and usurpers, they shall look to the Gods for guidance when this is all over.”

“I do not seek to take the Gods away from the people,” Daenerys says. “I shall work _with_ the faith, not against it.”

“You cannot work with the faith,” Ser Barristan says. “That is why King Maegor, while cruel, outlawed them.”

“And it was King Jaehaerys that sued for peace,” Daenerys murmurs. “We shall sue for peace when I take my throne.”

“Peace will be hard fought,” Prince Oberyn says, holding up a letter. “House Tyrell will not declare while Queen Margaery is held by the faith. We have, however, managed to claim the alliance of the King in the North – and House Tully. The North will march on Kings Landing if we need.”

“House Tyrell obviously plans to support the Queen,” Ser Jorah says. “They sent ships – and mayhaps we should send for Lady Olenna to meet with her grace.”

“The Lannisters would notice Lady Olenna taking a trip south,” Doran dismisses.

“The news of Daenerys’ arrival will spread far and wide within the week,” Lyarra says, pointing out the obvious. “Three dragons are hard to ignore, Prince Doran.”

“The Lannisters have not cared for Dorne in nearly nineteen years.” Doran takes a sip of his wine. “They shall not come for us now.”

“They can’t,” Oberyn says. “We have 50-thousand men. Cersei Lannister would be sending her army to a quick grave.”

“Cersei Lannister would never be so foolish as to meet the Dothraki on an open field,” Ser Barristan says. “She shall stay in her keep and let her walls protect her.”

“A castle will not keep out dragons,” Daenerys murmurs, her eyes focused on the lion sigil on the table.

“No,” Aegon agrees, “but the city will. If we expose them to the wrath of your children, they shall not forgive you.”

Daenerys regards him with a quiet disdain, hidden by her polite smile and a quick nod. If Daenerys wasn’t so intent on becoming Queen, she could make a good actress.

“I do not intend on burning anyone, but my enemies.” Daenerys meets Lyarra’s gaze, grimacing. “I have seen what fire does to people. Flesh burns just as quickly as any wax, and it leaves a stench I hate. The sight of my dragon’s destruction is one I fear, Prince Aegon – you need not lecture me on the danger they pose, or what the smallfolk may think of them. I already know.”

Now it is Aegon’s turn to grimace. “I didn't mean to offend you, my Queen.”

“I doubt you did,” Daenerys says, “but that is another issue for another day. Now, we have to determine what it means to be a monarch. I have worn a crown for years now – first, through my husband, second, through my blood. I know what a burden it is to be a Queen, so I know your allegiance does not come without conditions. Tell me, Prince Aegon, what is your price?”

Aegon’s lips tighten into a small line, his face pinching with his displeasure. “You speak of crowns as if it is a trade.”

“You say you are my nephew,” Daenerys says with a shrug, “with a claim better than mine. So, tell me, what is your price?”

Silence falls across the table, more tension felt than that on a battlefield.

“Will it be marriage?” Daenerys prompts. “Take your pick, Aegon – you can ask for either of us.”

Lyarra’s head snaps up, shock quickly replaced by anger. She has had this discussion before, standing in her fathers solar and glaring at Eddard Stark. Lyarra recalls the rage she felt at the thought of being sold to a bastard, the _King's_ bastard. She remembers her words as well, her threats to follow in the footsteps of Ashara Dayne.

“Dany!” Lyarra snaps, so furious she could spit.

Her Aunt refuses to meet her eyes. “You wanted to be a Targaryen, Lya. This is what it means to be a Targaryen.”

“Lyarra is a bastard,” Lord Connington says, his anger almost as thick Lyarra’s. It was the first time they had agreed on something in the entire space of the meeting. Lyarra suspects it will be the only time. “It is an insult to betroth the rightful heir to his _bastard_ sister.”

“Jon…” Aegon begins, his face twisting with ugliness. She knows why; she has always known why. _Bastard_ was supposed to hurt her. It had, for a time, until she had met Lord Tyrion.

“You use the truth as a weapon?” Lyarra asks, raising a brow. “I know who I am, Lord Connington. I am the daughter of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, and blood of the King in the North. The truth does not frighten me, nor does my surname.”

She takes a sip of her wine, ignoring the proud look Tyrion sends her. “Does the truth frighten you, Lord Connington? You are but a sellsword who Westeros thought dead, with eyes that hold many secrets. It is dangerous to have such a reckless tongue – especially when you have so many truths hidden within.”

Oberyn is watching her, his copper eyes burning with the fire she had come to know. It is a different blaze to that of her dragon, or to the fire that burns within her. No, this fire belongs solely to lust – changeable and easily extinguished.

“Enough,” Prince Doran rules. “A quarrel will mean nothing come battle.”

“But marriage will,” Dany says. “Here is what I propose: a union between Prince Aegon and I. We shall marry in Dorne, and come time for battle, we shall fight together. All three of us.”

Lyarra cannot remove her glare from Daenerys, her anger a serpent that slithers through her veins and wraps around her heart. She knows what it means to be traded, but never had she imagined that Daenerys Targaryen would be selling her. _Every lord and lady is the same,_ she thinks, _they would sell their children, their castle and their wives too if it meant a night spent in the Red Keep._

“And when the war is done?” Lord Jon asks.

Daenerys smiles in that way she does, small and quiet and dangerous. It is the smile of a Queen, the smile so similar to Cersei Lannister that Lyarra is jolted back to her time in the capital _._ “I shall sit upon the Iron Throne, with _King_ Aegon at my side.”

“But not an equal,” Aegon murmurs. “A consort, more like.”

“Our children shall be heirs,” Daenerys supplies. “Your children Kings and Queens. It is better than the life of a pauper, Prince Aegon.”

“I heard you were barren,” Lord Jon snipes from the end of the table.

Ser Barristan stands, his blade hitting the table. “Watch your tongue.”

“Just a rumour, Lord Connington.” Daenerys waves her dismissal at the white knight, her eyes returning to Aegon. “I am quite sure I will have many children. If not, Aegon shall take another wife.”

Prince Doran shakes his head. “Bigamy is not smiled upon by our gods.”

“And neither is incest,” Daenerys reasons, shooting Lyarra a look. “House Targaryen has done many things that the Gods have not smiled upon.”

Lord Tyrion is quiet when he says, “Mayhaps that is why the Gods cursed the House with madness and usurpers.”

“Cursed?” Daenerys echoes, shaking her head. “Gods do not curse innocents for the sins of their forefathers. Or have I been praying to the wrong gods my whole life?”

Silence falls over them once more, the sort of silence one would find in a Sept. Contemplative and cruel.

“Or… you can marry Lyarra.”

Lyarra pushes away from the table, shaking her head. She goes to stand at the window as she would so often do in Meereen. But this was not Meereen, and she was not free to make her own decisions. _I have never been free to make my own decisions,_ she thinks, _no woman is._   

“Lyarra is not a pawn to be traded,” Oberyn's snaps, shaking his head. “I apologise, your grace, but Lyarra is not yours to sell.”

“Is she not, Prince Oberyn?” Daenerys asks, her own eyes flaring. The Queen is no fool – and for all that she respects Oberyn, Daenerys knows what he had done to her kin. “You brought her to Meereen, told me of her lineage, and abandoned her within moons. She is not yours to trade anymore – she is of my blood. As Head of her House, I shall be the one to decide her hand.”

Lyarra finds a strange sense of kinship burning for her Aunt then, along with her anger.

“And what does she think of this?”

“Women are betrothed all the time,” The Queen says. “It is the way of things.” She returns her gaze to Aegon. “So, what say you, Prince Aegon? Lyarra is a beauty to behold. If you wish, I could legitimise her – but only if you forsake your claim to the throne.”

“My Queen…”

“Or… you can choose neither,” Daenerys continues. “And we shall storm Kings Landing without you.” Standing, Daenerys goes to the door. “It is your decision, Prince Aegon. Choose wisely.”

Lyarra finds Daenerys with the dragons, dressed in riding leathers.

“I am not yours to give away,” Lyarra sneers, her skirts blowing in the wind. The calm has left Dorne and in its place, a storm of wind and rage. It seems the Gods have heard her anger, for they have sent sands to fill the air and a gale to swirl through the city. “You didn’t even ask me.”

“Stop fretting,” Daenerys calls back, throwing Drogon some meat. She turns to face Lyarra, her silver hair whipping forward. “Aegon will not choose you. There’s no logic in it – and his Uncle wouldn’t allow it.”

A hysterical laugh escapes Lyarra. “You think Oberyn will stop Aegon in claiming me if that is his wish? Are you absolutely mad?”

“Depending on who you ask.” Daenerys shrugs, a smile playing at her lips. When that doesn’t crack Lyarra’s hard exterior, Daenerys sighs – coming to stand before her. Her expression is softer than Lyarra has ever seen, guilty even. “I didn’t mean to make you angry, niece. I know who he will choose, I know what negotiations will take place. In any case, he doesn’t look at you as he would a lover.”

“You don’t need to lust after a woman to make her your bride,” Lyarra sneers. “What if he accepts? I am not a dragon’s wife.”

“No,” Daenerys agrees, “you’re not. And you won’t be. Pride will stop Lord Connington from allowing Aegon to accept the betrothal. Besides, the man that sits the Iron Throne cannot have the lover of another King warming his bed, and giving him children, no matter how much he may want it.”

Lyarra’s cheeks flush.

“Aegon will marry me,” Daenerys says, with conviction and confidence in both hands, “and most likely, I shall have to give him power for his price. Mayhaps he shall be my Hand as well.”

“You really think he will agree to this?” Lyarra asks. “He has a dragon now – he doesn’t need you.”

Daenerys turns back to her dragons, before sighing. “But we have two dragons. If he disagrees, we shall do what we must.”

“Would you really?” Lyarra asks. “Would you really kill Viserion?”

“Viserion wouldn’t harm me, you said so yourself,” Dany murmurs, the wind biting at her cheeks as her face folds in torment. “But it won’t come to that. It can’t. He needs us, Lya – he needs my dragons and he needs my men.”

“And what of me?” Lyarra questions, staring at her Aunt. “You risk my future without a care in the world, Dany. What’s to say you won’t do it again?”

Violet eyes meet hers, and a quiet voice cuts through the winds. “I have been traded before, Lyarra. I won’t do the same to you.”

Lyarra wishes she could believe her.

But promises had been made in the past, and Lyarra knows how easy it is for promises to be broken.

* * *

“It is so good to see you.”

Arianne hugs her tightly, her embrace almost as stifling as the Dornish air. She doesn’t seem plagued by the time spent apart, nor does she seem much different. Her beauty is still obvious, her mind still sharp – but there are hushed truths in her eyes, truths Lyarra cannot ignore.

“You were in Storm’s End for him, weren’t you?” Lyarra asks. “When you said goodbye, you said you were traveling North.”

Arianne nods, coming to sit on Lyarra’s bed. This chamber is different from the one she had at the water gardens. It is smaller, but it has a balcony overlooking the ocean – reminding her all too much of Meereen and Storm’s End. “Father heard whispers of a young man, with blue hair and indigo eyes. I told him whispers mean nothing; he told me there is truth in rumour, no matter how small. Unfortunately, he was right.”

“What do you make of him?” Lyarra asks, brushing her hands on her skirts. Arianne’s eyes go to her lap, her copper skin flushing. “Gods be good, Arianne, I thought you smarter than to fall for pretty hair and purple eyes.”

“If I was a girl to fall for such traits, I would have forced myself between your legs,” Arianne snaps, to Lyarra’s laughter.

“You did try, Arianne,” Lyarra says, nudging her friend. “You failed, too.”

“My Uncle didn’t.” Arianne turns her gaze to Lyarra. “You spent moons turning away his hands, only to spread your legs the moment you have left Dorne. Tyene says you are wroth with him.”

“I am not wroth,” Lyarra says with a shrug. “I just learned the truth.”

“And the truth made you mad?” Arianne asks. “What was it?”

Lyarra tells her in a few words, not bothering to hide her animosity to the Prince of Dorne. She doesn’t care how obvious it may be, nor does she care if Arianne thinks her petulant. Oberyn Martell had lied to her, and not even the Gods could forgive a liar.

“I thought you would be happy to see the North declare for you.” Arianne cocks her head to the side. “Robb Stark will declare for House Targaryen for all to see, and you shall fight beside him come battle time. So why are you angry at my Uncle?”

“He lied.” Lyarra cannot stomach the thought of any more lies. Her name was a lie, her father a lie and Oberyn too. She would not swallow any more dishonesty. “I have known more than enough liars in my life, Arianne. I need not know another.”

“Oberyn may have lied,” Arianne concedes, “but so has everyone else. Westeros is built on lies, told by great men in great keeps. Cersei Lannister lied when she said her children were Baratheons, Rhaegar Targaryen lied when he swore vows to my aunt, and Eddard Stark, the most honourable man in all seven kingdoms, lied for every man, woman, and child to see when he claimed you as his own.”

“And Oberyn knew that,” Lyarra says. “He knew what lies have done to my life, and he decided to lie anyway.”

“There is no war that compares to a woman scorned,” Arianne says, cupping Lyarra’s cheek. “When he comes begging, give him hell. If he has hurt you, hurt him too; and mayhaps then he will learn what it means to love a woman. But know that for all your hurt, Oberyn was never the true cause. You may blame him for a lie told, but this anger belongs to something else – something much bigger than one mistruth.”

“Love…” Lyarra laughs at the word. “Oberyn Martell’s love died with his sister. He deceives himself to think me the woman to revive it.”

Arianne smiles wryly, coming to kiss Lyarra’s hand. “I have missed you.”

“As I you.”

Oberyn finds Lyarra in her chambers, alone.

“You look well.”

Lyarra cringes at the sound of his voice. She knew it would take no time before he would find her in this castle, but she had hoped Obara would keep him from her chambers. The Sand Snake who had once cursed her existence was now an ally of some sort; a reluctant one, but an ally all the rest.

She turns to look at him, through vengeful eyes. He is just as she remembers, fine and handsome. Dressed in a garb of orange silks and brown cotton, he looks better than the man she knew in Meereen. That man, trapped in his grief, had crumbled her trust with a few words. _Will this man do the same?_

Lyarra glances down at her own body, spying the dreaded silks she has been forced in. Where she once loved gowns of lace and fine stitching, she now preferred the freedom of her riding leathers. These gowns showed too much skin and too many scars. The silks, coloured as blue as the summer sea, were thin enough to risk her modesty. _It is the Dornish way,_ Arianne had once murmured, _to get you naked within days._

“I did not invite you into my chambers,” Lyarra says.  

“You did not invite me to do many things,” Oberyn argues from behind her. “You didn’t ask me to take you from Kings Landing, nor did you ask me to offer you protection. I did both anyway – and here you stand, alive and well. Do you begrudge me so much for keeping you safe?”

“Safe? You traded me for Dorne’s survival,” Lyarra says, turning on her heel. “Have you always been so arrogant? I didn’t see it before, but now, it is blinding.”

Oberyn watches her with blazing eyes, a grimace on his lips. “You’re still angry.”

“My anger is not something you can wish away,” Lyarra snarls. “What did you expect when I arrived? That I would be willing again, and in your bed by dawn? Do you have such little respect for my fury?”

“Time is a great friend to forgiveness,” Oberyn says, “but I see time has not been kind to me.”

Lyarra bares her teeth, trying to emulate the fierceness of her familiars. Rhaegal would have rained fire down on the Martell prince; Ghost would have just ripped his throat out. Lyarra thinks it an awful tragedy that the Gods sought to bless her with such a fury, when they had cursed her with the body of a woman. _I was born for the flesh of dragons and wolves, not the weaknesses of a woman._

For just a moment, she wants to be as vicious as she feels. She wants to be ugly and gruesome, a sight to behold for the men that seek to destroy her. Forget beauty and fairness, she wants the ugliness within her to overwhelm all else. _Let them see me for what I really am,_ she thinks, _a dragon, a wolf, a warrior._

“Leave,” Lyarra snaps, her nails digging into her palm. “You have been in my chambers for less than five minutes and I have yet to hear an apology or see any sort of remorse.”

“I’m sorry,” is all he says.

Lyarra scoffs. “Any apology that needs to be prompted is no real apology.” Lyarra turns away, going back to the window. “Now leave, before I find one of my blades and nick the artery in your neck. Or mayhaps I shall call my dragon, and see how he wants to handle you.”

“Is this how anger twists you?” Oberyn asks. “You threaten a man you once loved?”

“I never loved you,” Lyarra sneers, “and I never could. If you had listened to me, mayhaps you would not be so foolish as to declare your feelings in front of the whole small council.”

“Daenerys Targaryen seeks to sell you-”

“And it is her right, as head of my house!” Lyarra snaps. “Do you think I wish it? Do you think I want a betrothal? I’d rather greyscale than marriage, especially to a man who supposedly shares my blood. But she is my Queen, you made sure of that – and who am I to question the will of a Queen?”

“Lyarra Snow.” Oberyn moves towards her, his hand coming to stroke her neck. “The woman who controlled both the King in the North and a Dornish Prince.”

“I never sought to control you,” Lyarra whispers. “I never sought to control anyone.” She turns, shoving him away from her. “You are just like the rest of them. Men who saw what they liked when they looked at me, whether that be a dragon or a ghost. Men who thought to make me into who they wanted. Men like Robert Baratheon and Tywin Lannister; men who would rather rape a woman than speak to her.”

Oberyn's face folds in grief. “You think me like Robert and Tywin? You think me like the men that hurt you?”

“Didn’t you?” Lyarra asks. “You may not have raised a hand, but your lie did more damage than any assault.”

Oberyn shakes his head, his expression so conflicted she wonders whether he shall weep right there. Lyarra is not a cruel person, but she cannot take back her words, nor can she take back his hurt. Fear made her irrational; love made her cruel.

“I never meant to hurt you,” Oberyn whispers. “I only wished to keep you safe.”

“Good intentions make for great tragedy,” Lyarra says, “and I have seen enough tragedy to last a lifetime, Prince Oberyn. Now please… get. out.”

* * *

She bathes in the ocean, away from the vipers that threaten to choke her.

Lyarra swims in her shift, the salt flooding her mouth and holding her above the waves. The Dornish sea is unforgiving, but there is a comfort to be found in something crueler than her own feelings. As the tide pushes and pulls, Lyarra wonders if she will be so lucky as to be pulled under.

Never did she think she would wish to return to Meereen until she arrived in Dorne once more. Westeros threatened to drown her, like the summer sea of Dorne, and she could do little to stop it.

When Lyarra finally resurfaces from the waves, she makes her way to the shore. She has always been a strong swimmer, with moons spent in the streams outside of Winterfell. Growing up around fish proves useful now, her legs strong and her arms capable to battle with the tide. But getting to the shore tires her, and as soon as she reaches the red sands, she is lying down – desperate for air.

Looking to the skies, Lyarra wonders if Rhaegal is flying. She slips into him quickly, the talent now easier than she ever imagined so, before seeing the sands of a faraway land. He is near, but he will not come unless she calls him. When she opens her eyes once more, she sees a different dragon approaching, one less fearsome, but so much more difficult.

Lyarra decides she would face a thousand fights with a dragon if it meant she never had to see Aegon Targaryen again.

He walks with a purpose, this pauper turned Prince – and when he turns his indigo eyes on her, he smiles. It is a smile once reserved for people far from here, a smile Rickon or Bran would offer. Bran more so than the youngest Stark; by the time she returned from Bear Island, she was a stranger to Rickon. _And now he is dead._

Pushing herself up from the sand, Lyarra crosses the small distance to where she left her gown. Many men had seen her body, bare and bruised; Aegon Targaryen didn’t need to see it too.

Aegon stops before her as she ties the last of her laces, the gown soaking through as the water spreads from her shift. Lyarra pays little attention to her dripping form, instead jutting out her chin and meeting the eyes of this stranger turned kin. His eyes, an exact replica of hers, are jarring to see; proof of the lie Eddard Stark told, and the truth she was so desperate to reject.

“Hello,” He says simply, holding his hands behind his back. It’s then this man, tall and towering, looks awkward. He may be Rhaegar Targaryen incarnate, but he does not carry himself as the man in the songs – instead, he holds his body in the same uncertainty she often finds herself. It makes it harder to believe him a false Prince when he looked the part, played the part so well. “I saw you from my window.”

Lyarra rings out her hair. “And you thought to approach me?”

“I thought to check you were alright,” Aegon says, scratching his head. “These waters are strong enough to wreck ships and you are but a small woman.”

Lyarra cocks a brow.

“Not that you struggle to handle yourself…” Aegon almost stammers, a flush taking hold of his cheeks. He breathes deeply, as if remembering himself, and his indigo eyes reopen with a renewed sense of self. “I have only spoken to you thrice and yet we share the same father. I thought to come speak to you.”

“About our shared blood?” Lyarra asks, her fingers working her hair into a braid. Her wild mane is dogged by sand and knots, unyielding in its mess. “I have no insight for you, Aegon. If you wish for stories of Rhaegar Targaryen, mayhaps you should ask Lord Connington. He seems to hold your father in high regard, higher than most.”

Confusion takes hold of his face. “My father,” He says, “but not yours?”

“The man who raised me, and the man who fathered me are both dead.” Lyarra ties a leather around her braid. “It matters not who I call father.”

“It matters if we are to retake the seven kingdoms.”

Lyarra sighs. “I was just trying to swim, Aegon, not receive a lecture in the game of thrones.”

Aegon apologises, but that doesn’t stop him from following her as she makes her way back to the keep. “You don’t want to talk about the throne?”

“I don’t want to talk of anything,” Lyarra complains, her thighs aching as they climb the sands. “All the plans in the world cannot compete with the cruelty of war, so why bother. I have been fool enough to make plans that failed in the past – and it only brings disappointment I don’t wish to feel. If you want to speak of the Iron Throne, do so with any one of your advisors. Or mayhaps if you’re feeling brave, you’ll discuss it with the Queen.”

“The Queen…” Aegon trails off. “Are you scared of her?”

 _More than I’ll admit._ “What does that matter?”

“A Queen cannot rule over people that are scared of her,” He says simply. “Fear has been the end to many reigns, our grandfathers included.”

“Madness brought an end to Aerys’ reign,” Lyarra corrects. “Madness, and Jaime Lannister. I’m sure fear was involved as well, but it would be foolish to think that people did not fear any person that sat on the Iron Throne.”

“The people didn’t fear Robert Baratheon.”

A snort escapes her. “Of course they did, but they enjoyed the peace his reign brought and loved him anyway.”

“Did you?”

Lyarra stops in the sand, more exhausted than she would care to admit. “Robert Baratheon took one look at me and whispered Lyanna. When he touched me, he touched a girl dead as long as I have been alive – and when he _kissed_ me, he dug his fingers into my ribs and promised not to rape me. Robert Baratheon was an accidental king, fonder of rutting than ruling and in the end, I pitied him. But I would quicker love the Stranger than I would love Robert Baratheon.”

She takes a breath to calm herself before she glances at her so-called brother. He is staring at her with a perplexed expression on his face – conflict warring with torment. Finally, he says, “I always assumed he was horrible, this man who killed my father and ordered the deaths of my mother and sister.”

“He _was_ horrible.” Lyarra winces recalling his breath, stinking of wine and his lips, wrapped around the name of her aunt turned mother. “But he wasn’t always like that. The man who started the war was not the same as the man who ended it. And I suppose even the worst warrior would make a better King than a man who wanted to watch us burn.”

A tightness pinches Aegon’s face. “I wish I could have known him.”

Lyarra looks up, surprised. “I didn’t think you would want to know the usurper.”

“My family was murdered, and our House destroyed,” Aegon says with a shrug, seeming so like Daenerys it is uncanny, “and the least I could do was to have met the man responsible.”

Lyarra thinks aloud when she asks, “Would you have killed him?”

“I don’t know,” Aegon replies. “I would hope so. Lord Jon would want me to say yes.”

“But if it really came to it,” She says, “and you met the King on an open field, would you have killed him?”

“Killing Kings is not a way to win wars,” Aegon says, confidence returning to his voice. “It didn’t work so well last time.”

“It worked for seventeen years.”

“It didn’t work,” Aegon repeats, this time his voice full of conviction. “When the Lannister forces stormed Kings Landing seventeen years ago, they butchered a whole dynasty – and fractured all seven Kingdoms. By killing my mother, they ruined whatever chance they had at peace and while the Lords and Ladies of Westeros like to think the war ended that day, it did not. Every day I spent in the east, the war continued on – and every day you drew breath, the war raged.”

Aegon takes a step towards her, his eyes holding secrets he would never tell. “We are the last of them, of a family we never knew. While we were just babes, the men of these kingdoms butchered our kin and stole our futures. We are their failure, and every day we live, Westeros knows war.”

He smiles, playing with her braid. “You asked me if I would kill Robert Baratheon if I had the chance. The answer is no. I am no Kingslayer, no Jaime Lannister, and I would never want to draw blood before the iron throne. The murderer, the King who kills for his crown… that’s _not_ me.”

He says his words with such conviction and _such_ naivety that Lyarra almost feels as if she is staring at Rickon. The man before her has known so much pain – and still, there is a kindness to him, an innocence he should not continue to bear.

“War cares not for your morality, Prince Aegon,” Lyarra says sweetly, “and when the time comes, the iron throne will need blood to claim it. Yours, mine, hers – it matters not. But you cannot expect to be King without sacrifice. You should know that your good heart may be the first to go.”

She makes her way to return to the keep before a hand comes to stop her. Aegon is staring at her with a dancing gaze, one so similar to Oberyn's that her doubts are eroded away – like the water she has just surfaced.

“Would we be a good match?” He asks, not bothering to specify.

Lyarra laughs. “I think we both know that there was only one betrothal offered yesterday.”

Aegon rolls his eyes. “I am not dim, Lyarra. I’m well aware of what was offered.”

“So then you’re asking about Daenerys?” Lyarra questions, before a sigh escapes her lips. “Daenerys is a strong leader, too strong sometimes. She needs someone to temper her.”

Aegon’s grasp on her wrist slips. “And you think that shall be me?”

Lyarra purses her lips, half tempted to tell him to go away and make his own decisions. But then there is a tugging thought, that Aegon looks to her with the same expression she wears in her mirrors, and the words are spilling from her lips before she can stop them, “While she may have presented it as an agreement, know that she is a Queen and must negotiate. You have one of her dragons now, Aegon – and you have the better claim.”

Surprise lights up his features. “I didn’t expect you to be backing my claim.”

“I’m not,” Lyarra says with a shrug. “Consider me the Vale, impartial and impenetrable. I know what wars are, how hard they can be, and a small argument here can lead to true trouble on the battlefield. So negotiate, and see if she will change her offer – or accept the betrothal, and ask for nothing else. Either way, you shall be King – and your children will sit upon the Iron Throne.”

Aegon’s lips twitch. “And what if Lord Jon is right? What if she is barren?”

“Then you will find a beautiful Lynesi woman,” Lyarra murmurs, “name her your paramour and fill her full of dragons. Or you shall take a second wife, mayhaps Margaery of the House Tyrell. Do as you will, and do it quickly – but planning for children that may never be is like planning for a summer rain when winter is coming.”

The walk back to the palace is quiet, and Lyarra tries to ignore the footsteps that follow her three steps behind. Aegon Targaryen broods louder than most men speak and so when they finally reach the keep, Lyarra is desperate to escape this man turned brother. Walking through the halls, she avoids the gaze of passing handmaidens – gawking at her dripping state.

“Lyarra,” someone calls when she passes the hall.

There, standing in the light of the stained windows and the Dornish throne is a man she has not seen in nigh on a year. Dressed in leathers too hot for the southern heat, and wrapped in the look of the North, Harrion Karstark stands beside Oberyn Martell – her two worlds colliding like comets in the sky.

He turns on his heel, his lips stretching into a smile as he lets out a yell. She crosses the textured tiles, flinging herself into his arms and inhaling the North. Unlike any of her dreams, the scent of snow was real and it burns her nostrils with familiarity. Her heart thrums, singing _home, home, home._

“Gods be good, Lya,” Harry murmurs, his hand coming to fist her hair. “Do you know how we searched for you? How we _fought_ for you?”

Tears blur her vision and she feels all the weaker for it. Pulling back, she wipes at her cheeks, “How is he? How is … Robb?”

“Alive, fighting for the North,” Harry says, cupping her cheeks. He is fully bearded now, and more handsome than he has ever been, “and _desperate_ to see you.”

A sob escapes her lips, the horrors of the past year acting as her prison. Before her stands a past she thought never to see again, a man who once knew her well. Now, they are strangers – divided by time, Targaryen’s and Tywin Lannister. She looks to the floor, wondering what he must see. Harrion Karstark last saw her on a battlefield, fighting for the King in the North. Now she is trapped in a Dornish palace, dressed up as a dragon and fighting for a Queen from the east.

“Why are you here?” She whispers, confused.

Harrion glances to Oberyn, his expression tight. “We have a war to win, Lya. And the North is committed to fighting for you.”

“For me?”

Harrion smiles, heartbreakingly sad. “For your House. For the dragons.”

When they are alone, Lyarra does her best not to weep. She wants to, gods how she wants to, but tears are folly in a man's war and she does not want her Northern brother to see her as anything but the warrior he remembered. In his eyes, she is still the soldier that fought off the Lannister army – not the victim of Tywin Lannisters wrath, or the dragon she has been forced to accept.

“You’re Hand of the King,” Lyarra murmurs, fingering his wolf crest. They had always talked of anointing a Hand once peace was secured, but that was when Robb shared her bed – and liked to promise her fantasies that the future would never allow. “Was Robb in his cups when he named you?”

Harrion rolls his eyes, “Leave off, Lya. The King couldn’t keep the seat empty forever.”

Lyarra’s smile dampens, her heart clenching. There was another seat Robb couldn’t keep empty forever – a seat Roslin Frey easily filled. “I would have been a poor Hand anyway.”

“Aye,” Harrion agrees, “you would have distracted him too much.”

Lyarra’s cheeks burn, her eyes going to the floor. “You know?”

Harrion is soft-spoken when he says, “The whole world knows.”

“Do you hate me for it?” Lyarra asks, her hands twisting in the dry breeches she had hastily thrown on. “Does the North?”

“The North has been at war for a long time,” Harrion says, “and whatever whispers they hear about their King are promptly ignored. Robb is well liked, well respected… and the Lannisters are thought to be liars.”

“Then why do you believe it?”

“I asked him,” Harrion replies with a shrug. He is twitching uncomfortably in his jerkin, sweat-slick on his skin. Lyarra goes to open the windows, allowing the breeze to fill the stifling room. “The King had just learned his wife was pregnant and proceeded to drink himself under the table. He told me quite happily.”

Lyarra’s stomach lurches. “I heard Queen Roslin was with child.”

“Aye, the most welcome news for the North,” Harrion says, wincing. “The King did not think so.”

Lyarra meets his gaze, shame flooding her. “We never meant for it to happen, Harry. We never meant to do something so … so _horrible_.”

“You are the Kings cousin,” Harry replies. “When we win this war, that is the story we shall tell. And the people will decide whether to believe the whispers of lions or to believe their King.”

Lyarra’s face twists with disgust, her hands coming to cover her shame. It chokes her, this sin she has committed. And even with all the time passed, she still feels just as she did whenever she stood before a heart tree or gazed at a Sept. _Sinner,_ she would think, her stomach twisting with the knowledge the Gods would never forgive her.

“Do not lynch yourself for your sins,” Harry murmurs, taking her hands in his. “War is an easy place to find yourself sinning, Lyarra – and we have all done things the Gods will not care for. In any case, you are the Kings cousin now and we have little time to bicker over the past.”

Harrion’s expression turns ashen, and suddenly it’s her turn to comfort him. “Harry, what’s wrong?”

“The small council needs to meet,” Harrion murmurs, “for I am only telling this once.”

* * *

“You come here with tales of Night Kings and an army of the dead, and expect us to believe you?”

Lyarra is stunned in her seat, as the small council erupts in outrage. Harrion Karstark brings news, not even the Gods could imagine, news so vile she wants to wretch. Not so long ago, Old Nan had told her stories of the Others – an army sent by the Old Gods to wreak havoc on this world. But the stories were tales to scare children to sleep, nothing more, nothing less.

“It can’t be true,” Daenerys says flatly, glancing to Ser Jorah for confirmation. “Can it?”

“I swear it before the Old Gods and the new,” Harrion says, placing testimonies on the war table. “I have sworn statements from the Lord Commander Jeor Mormont and the King in the North. I myself have seen the wights beyond the wall, as has the King.”

“Robb has seen them? _You_ have seen them?” Lyarra gapes, unable to stop herself. “What was it like?”

“Like death,” He says, wincing. “Fire kills them, we believe…”

“Which is why you need us,” Daenerys finishes. “Is that why Robb Stark pledged his allegiance in the first place? To trick me into endangering my dragons?”

“The King made the agreement with Prince Oberyn to support your claim,” Harrion says, “on the condition Lady Lyarra be kept safe. At the time, we were in the Westerlands – and word had yet to reach us of the dead.”

“How convenient for your King,” Dany says to Lyarra’s fury.

“Your grace,” Lyarra begins, “I have known Lord Harrion my entire life and know him to be a true and honest person. He is hand to the King in the North and would not lie about matters like this.”

“So you believe him?” Oberyn asks. “This tale of wights and the dead? Lyarra, this is an old wives’ tale – told by Septa’s to scare their charges.”

“Harrion wouldn’t lie,” Lyarra snaps, her eyes blazing. “I fought alongside him, Robb named him his Hand. I trust him with my life and if he says the dead are rising, then the dead are rising.” Lyarra turns to Ser Jorah. “Your father is Lord Commander of the Nights Watch, Ser Jorah. Surely you believe him?”

Daenerys turns to her favoured knight, watching as he falters over the question. “My father would not lie.”

“That settles it,” Lyarra decides, turning to Harrion. “How large is the threat?”

“We cannot know,” Harrion says, “but we know that wildlings will soon need to be let over the Wall. If we keep them locked out, they will die – and join the army of the dead.”

“Wildlings in the North?” Ser Barristan breathes. “This is extraordinary.”

“This is the war we must fight,” Harrion insists. “Forget the Iron Throne, forget the Lannisters – if we are to survive, we must deal with this threat.”

Chaos erupts once more. “You would have me abandon my throne?” Daenerys roars. “Do you think me a fool?”

“Dany…” Lyarra pleads.

“The King in the North should know better than to send his Hand to make up stories to delay my war,” Daenerys snaps. “If he wants to ally himself with the Lannisters, he should do so – but not through lies and deceit.”

“But what if it’s not a lie?” Aegon asks, his gaze on the fire. “This darkness is prophesied.”

Lord Connington sighs. “Your father liked to think so, your grace, but this is not the time for prophecies and songs.”

Prince Aegon ignores him. “The Prince that was promised will deliver the world from darkness. It is known, Jon.”

“It is a _prophecy,_ ” Lord Jon rebuts, “One well liked in the East, but little known here. It’s nothing more than an old myth.”

Aegon shakes his head, looking to both Lyarra and Daenerys. “When I was growing up, I was told of my father’s character; of his kindness and generosity. I was also told of the prince that was promised, the prophecy my father thought I was born to fulfill. He believed mine was the song of ice and fire… and that the dragon would have three heads.”

Daenerys looks up, recognition dancing in her eyes. “I’ve heard that before.”

“It is an old prophecy, my Queen,” Lord Tyrion says. “One many have tried to fulfill.”

“And Rhaegar thought Aegon to be the prince that was promised?” Daenerys asks, addressing Lord Jon.

“Rhaegar thought a great many things,” Jon says, “but he died on the Trident and so did his ideas. It means nothing.”

“It doesn’t mean nothing,” Aegon snaps. “My father believed in this prophecy enough to seek Lyanna Stark and break his vows to my mother, all for the chance at bringing a third dragon into the world. And now we have three.”

Aegon’s eyes fall to Lyarra, his words twisting over the fire. She has never heard of prophecies or any prince that was promised, but the words feel heavy as they hang in the air. She has been told much about Rhaegar Targaryen, the man who gave her his eyes. First, he had been named a rapist, then a father… and now a prophet?

Lyarra looks to Harrion, feeling uncomfortable. “Prophecies are well and good, but when the cold winds blow and the dead come marching, it will be us who will fight against them. Not a prophesied hero or some prince promised thousands of years ago.”

“But it was promised,” Aegon murmurs, his eyes dancing, “and we cannot ignore that.”

* * *

“You believe him then?”

Daenerys cuts a lonely figure at Lyarra’s window, her shoulders tinged from the sun and her face melancholy. She has been quiet since Aegon spoke of the prophecy, retreating to her solar with Ser Jorah and Lord Tyrion. In her stead, Lyarra had spent the afternoon with Harrion, discussing wars won and scars suffered.

They don’t talk of Tywin Lannister. They don’t need to. Harrion has eyes, and he can see the scars that now litter her face, scars that were given to her by the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. When he asks of the dragon she rides, she simply smiles and asks of Ghost, the wolf who was the first to claim her heart.

By the time the sun falls behind the mountains, her mind is a fog of snow and pine – her nostalgia a crypt she lies in. Harrion leaves with the excuse of exhaustion, and with drooping eyes, finds his chambers to sleep. It doesn’t take long for Daenerys to come and bring with her the problems of a war yet to start.

“I believe Harrion Karstark,” Lyarra says, rubbing her eyes of their exhaustion. Her skin is covered in the salt of the ocean and her limbs are tired, as is her mind. “And the North would never side with Cersei Lannister. Her son murdered their Warden and the North will remember.”

“But white walkers?” Daenerys asks, her eyebrows furrowed. “It makes no sense.”

“And neither do dragons,” Lyarra rebuts. “There is no reason for the King to lie, Dany. Robb is an honest man, driven by honour. He would not deceive you.”

“I have met honourable men before,” Daenerys says, “and despite their intentions, they too can lie. You of all people should know this.”

A dark chuckle escapes Lyarra. “Don’t taunt me, Dany. I’m tired.”

A beat of silence spreads between them before Daenerys scoffs. “The prince that was promised. I suppose Aegon thinks he’s this prince?”

“It matters not who it is.” Lyarra moves to put wine on the fire, needing something to warm her up. The winds have blown cold – their chill rushing through the open windows. “If the threat is real, we must head North – otherwise Westeros is lost.”

“Lord Harrion says the threat is not immediate,” Daenerys rationalises. “And in any case, my armies cannot march North until we claim Kings Landing. No doubt the Lannisters will be waiting for us the moment we leave Dorne.”

“And what if the battle for Kings Landing depletes our numbers?” Lyarra asks. “We are not talking of thrones or politics here, Dany. We are talking of the dead.”

“I know what we’re talking about,” Dany snaps, her violet eyes wild with confusion. “But … there is no way around it. Even if we were to sail to White Harbour, the Lannister fleet would surely meet us. It could be disastrous, Lyarra.”

“The dead breaching the wall could be disastrous,” Lyarra says, standing to retrieve the warm wine. “Mayhaps I should fly North with Rhaegal, and assess the threat. I could speak with the King-”

“If anyone is to fly North, it shall be me,” Daenerys says, her features softening. “I know you wish to see him, but I am the Queen – and if the dead are coming, I need to see them.”

Lyarra grits her teeth, fisting her breeches in frustration. “Mayhaps we should both go, then. Aegon too. I doubt we’d be able to leave him here, what with his obsession about this stupid prophecy.”

Her jape brings a smile to Daenerys’ face, a frustrated laugh escaping them both. “He is a boy.”

Lyarra laughs. “He is _older_ than both of us.”

Dany rolls her eyes. “War will ruin him, as it has ruined us.” Lyarra takes a sip of her wine before Daenerys speaks again. “Aegon will accept the betrothal.”

“I know,” Lyarra says. “He has no other choice.”

Dany frowns. “I offered him you.”

“You offered him a false promise,” Lyarra slings back. “You’ve said so yourself. So, what will you have to give up?”

Daenerys purses her lips. “Control.”

“But not the Throne?”

“We shall be equal,” Daenerys recites, “but I shall sit the throne.”

Lyarra looks out to the sea, a smile toying on her lips. “Aegon will survive us yet.”

* * *

When Harrion Karstark lays his eyes on the dragons Lyarra commands, he swears beneath his breath and wavers.

Rhaegal is magnificent beneath the light of the Dornish sun, his green scales rippling like the water from the summer sea. Lyarra can see the fear in her friend’s eyes, can feel the trepidation in his step. She can understand it, too – for when she first saw her dragon, it was fear she felt coursing through her veins, rather than the fire they had promised.

“He shall not hurt you,” Lyarra assures him, throwing him smile. Rhaegal is enjoying the sun, too docile to snap or nip at Harrion. “But I wouldn’t approach him quickly, or he may startle.”

“I am fine observing from a distance,” He calls back, to Lyarra’s endless laughter.

Later, when they are sitting on the sands and watching Rhaegal take to the sky, Harrion murmurs, “You do not laugh so much anymore.”

“War is not a kind friend to laughter,” Lyarra says simply.

“Aye, I know,” Harrion agrees, looking out over the bay. “You were right about my father.”

Lyarra glances up, confused.

“When Robb held the trial for his Lady Mother, it was easier for my father to forgive,” Harrion explains. “By the time the war ended, the King needed his Lady mother more than ever before – and my father, despite all his words, didn’t object. I don’t think he’ll ever admit it, but I think he was just happy for the war to be done and to return home.”

Lyarra leans against her knees. “Lord Karstark didn’t seem the man to ignore justice.”

“He’s not,” Harrion says, “but he was tired. We all were.”

“I’m tired too,” Lyarra murmurs, looking to the skies. Rhaegal is free in the clouds, his green wings spanning the width of the sun and back. Every so often, a shadow would fall over Dorne as the dragon hid the sun behind his back. Talk soon spreads to Sansa and Dacey, and the emptiness found in the rooms that once belonged to her other siblings.

Arya, Rickon, and Bran have still yet to be found, and when Harrion speaks of them, he does so with a thick throat.

It is when silence strikes that she knows she must ask. Swallowing deeply, with her eyes still trapped on the skies, she says, “You have barely spoken of Robb and his new Queen.”

Harrion sighs. “Lya…”

“I shall not break at the mention of her,” Lyarra assures, meeting his gaze. Dark brown hair, overgrown and untidy, hangs in the sight of his brown eyes. “I know she is with child and will most likely give the King a son. If I can know that and not fall, I am sure I can bear witness to stories of her kindness and character.”

Harrion shakes his head, anger in his eyes. “I don’t know what you would like to hear. That she is of fairness for a Frey, or that she can barely hold the Kings attention long enough to stop him from leaving.”

“But is she a good Queen?”

Something akin to fire burns in Harrion Karstarks eyes, a fire she sees in Oberyn when they’re alone. “Roslin Frey is a gracious Queen, and the North is lucky to have her.”

“I’m sure it is,” Lyarra murmurs, clutching handfuls of sand, only to have the grains fall from her grasp. “And does he love her?”

A snort escapes him. “Robb Stark has spent more time with his horse than he has his wife.”

“Long enough to get a whelp on her,” Lyarra mutters, bringing her knees to her chest.

“A _whelp_ that will be heir to the Northern throne,” Harrion snaps, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Make no mistake of it, Lyarra – while you have been befriending dragons, Roslin Frey has been fulfilling her role as Queen. Her child is as Stark as her father and one day, she will sit the weirwood throne.”

“She?” Lyarra asks, shock coursing through her.

Harrion Karstark wears shame better than any other man Lyarra has known. “Roslin Frey was birthed of a daughter a sennight ago, Lyarra. A raven delivered the news this morning.”

A shadow falls over Dorne again.

“What?” Lyarra chokes out, feeling fire rush through her veins.

Harrion retrieves the parchment and hands it to her. “A daughter named Alysanne.”

A dragon cries from above as Lyarra feels her heart shatter.

* * *

“Alysanne is a beautiful name,” Obara says, offering her a wineskin, “and we shall toast her regardless.”

The wind feels even colder on Lyarra’s cheeks, wet from her tears. She has escaped to Obara’s rooms, her back pressed staunchly against the wall of her small balcony. Overlooking the sea, Lyarra watches as the waves collide with the rocks below, reminding her all too much of places far from Dorne; places where wives are treated as slaves and babes slain in their beds.

In the light of the fading sun, Obara looks fearsome. Her skin has returned to its natural colour, darkened by the Dornish sun. Her brown hair is tied in a simple knot, piled at the top of her head – allowing all the world to see the scars she bore. Even with one eye, Obara Sand is more warrior than woman, defined by her scars and skeletons.

On the battlefield, Obara Sand would be seen as death incarnate – sent from the pits of hell to collect the Strangers debt. Here, she seems weary, her lean body slumped over a wineskin and her hands clenched tightly against her muscled thighs.

Taking a gulp, Lyarra tries not to focus on the storm that rages within her. “We are at war,” She says, “and I am weeping over a babe.”

“You’ve never been particularly strong,” Obara says, blunt and unkind. “Why start now?”

Lyarra withers her with the coldest look she can muster. “And here I was thinking we were friends.”

“I don’t have friends,” Obara says, her eyes distant, “just a long list of strangers who know my name.”

“I wonder why,” Lyarra replies dryly, taking another sip of the wine.

“I brought you wine,” Obara snipes. “ _You_ should be grateful.”

“Grateful.” Lyarra snorts. “I am torn to pieces over a babe not yet a week old, all because she is born of a union I hate the thought of. Roslin Frey – _Stark_ – has done what I shall never do… and now I’d like to get drunk.”

Obara doesn’t reply with a snide comment or her usual viciousness. Instead, she sighs and steals the wineskin from Lyarra’s hands. “Wine can only do so much, Princess – and for all your hopes, a night of oblivion does not eradicate the pain of tomorrow.”

“And what do you know of my pain?”

“I know of mine,” Obara says simply, staring into the cold dusk. “I know the pain of a mother’s cry, as her child is taken from her arms. I know the pain of a man who did not expect to die. I know the pain of a brother whose sister was butchered.” Her breath hitches. “I know the pain of a thousand men, all of whom wanted something I could never give. I know pain, Lyarra. It might not be the pain of a love for the bards, but I think I know enough of hate to know what your pain might feel like.”

Lyarra licks her lips. “Have you ever felt it before?” At Obara’s blank stare, she elaborates, “Heartbreak?”

“The heart is not so feeble as to break for love.” Obara scoffs. “Bodies are broken and flesh is flayed, but the heart will beat for as long as the Gods will it. If a blade could not break your heart, neither will love.”

Lyarra rubs at her chest. “It doesn’t feel that way.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” Obara says. “Love is powerful enough to will a Prince to forsake his wife and risk a kingdom. Make no mistake, Lyarra - love wages war just as easily as hatred. Mayhaps that is why it hurts so much.”

“You speak as if you know an awful lot about it.”

“Most people think my cunt has teeth, so I’m not shocked at your surprise.” Obara laughs. “I may wield a sword, and prefer battles to beds, but I have known enough men, and women too, to know what it means to have my heart take a beating.”

“And was it worth it?” Lyarra asks as the wind blows cold.

“Love is a distraction,” Obara murmurs, her eye gazing into the distance. It seems she is trapped in a different time, a different place. “In the end, all it brings is disappointment… and death.”

Lyarra seeks Oberyn out that night, her body humming with the warmth of wine and her eyes bleary.

Oberyn's door is unbarred, and the candles are worn down to stumps. He sits at his desk, a book in hand and concentration in the other. If she allows herself, she can forget their quarrel and his betrayal. It would be so easy to fall into him and act as they once did. But there is no ease in hatred and so she doesn’t seek his embrace or react when his lips say her name.

“Ellaria has been here,” She notes, smelling the richness of her perfume. She spots the dishevelled state of the bed, surprised Oberyn’s paramour wasn’t still in the sheets.  

Oberyn closes his book. “Does that bother you?”

“We are finished,” Lyarra snaps. “If you wish to bed a thousand women, I would not so much as blink an eye. In any case, I always knew Ellaria would never leave your bed – she made that clear.”

“She is the mother of my children,” Oberyn says. “I love Ellaria.”

Lyarra scoffs. “I pity her.”

Oberyn sighs, pinching his nose between two fingers. “Have you come here to punish me, Lyarra? If so, you can leave. I am not a sadist.”

“Are you not?” Lyarra asks, clicking her tongue. “I thought you took pleasure in creating pain.”

“Then you do not know me at all,” Oberyn says, his dark eyes narrowing. He lets out another huff of frustration, before pouring a goblet of wine. “Would you like some wine?”

“I am drunk enough.”

“There is no such thing as being too drunk,” Oberyn mutters, before passing Lyarra a goblet. He sits back down, his tunic gaping in a show of his chest hair. Lyarra remembers what it felt to lie her head on his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heart. It was comforting once. _It can be again._ “Do you wish to yell at me again?”

Lyarra ponders the question, searching for the anger she so usually feels. But there is nothing there, just an empty space her heart once rested. She slumps down in the chair opposite Oberyn, taking the wine. “No.”

The fire crackles between them. “Do you want to speak of the North?”

“No,” Lyarra breathes, feeling more tears paint her cheeks. Taking a sip, Lyarra looks back to the man she once relied on – confused. “Why did you lie to me?”

“I don’t know,” Oberyn answers, his eyebrows knitting together. “I once thought it was to protect you, but … I don’t know if that’s true.”

“Why would deceiving me protect me?”

“We had just ruined your world with truths you were never meant to learn,” Oberyn murmurs, his eyes shining with regret. “I didn’t want to burden you with more news of a place we couldn’t take you.”

“You let me believe he didn’t want me.”

“Yes,” Oberyn acknowledges, shame flinching at his features. “Love made me cruel. And I’m sorry for that.”

“Was it because you were jealous?” Lyarra asks.

“Maybe,” Oberyn admits. “It is torturous to love someone who loves another, but… everything I have done has been to keep you safe. I couldn’t tell you of my agreement with the North while in King's Landing, and when we arrived in Dorne, you spent a moon locked in your rooms. When you were finally ready to hear it, I didn’t want to tell you anymore.”

“I love him,” She murmurs, “and you kept him from me.”

Oberyn smiles bitterly. “I wish I could keep you from him, Lya. I wish I could keep you here, in Dorne. I wish I could do as I wanted and make you my wife.”

“Oberyn…”

“I want to wed you, and bed you, and see you swell with my babes,” Oberyn says, leaning forward to cup her cheek. “I want to hold babes with copper skin and your eyes. I want to have sons called Eddard and Rickon and Bran. I want _you_ , Lya. I have always wanted you.”

Lyarra opens her eyes, so desperately tired. “There is no want in war.”

“I know,” Oberyn murmurs, leaning back in his seat. “When the small council meets tomorrow, I have no doubt we’ll decide to go North. When that happens, you shall see your King – and you will be his again.”

The words are out before she can stop them. “I have always been his.”

Oberyn chuckles, taking a gulp of his wine. “Not always.”

Lyarra cocks a brow.

“When I would take you to my bed,” Oberyn continues, his eyes burning, “and kiss you in that place you love so much, you would say only my name. You were mine in those moments.”

She is drunk, and bitterness is so hard to cling to in the dark of night.

Her fingers go to her breeches, unlacing them. Her hand finds the place he spoke of, her nails circling that button he once loved. Oberyn watches her with a blaze in his gaze, his fingers stretching at his crotch. She can see the way his leathers tighten at the sight of her, reminding her of the nights spent impaled on him.

“If it’s to be one of our last nights,” Lyarra murmurs, wine and grief emboldening her, “I can forget my anger for an hour or two.”

Oberyn stands, coming to hover over her. His hands come to the arms of her chair, leaning over her so his lips brush against her own. “You are a sight for sore eyes, my love. But you are drunk on your sadness… and if you are to return to my bed, I want you to do so with forgiveness.”

Lyarra’s hand stills. “I shall never forgive you.”

“Then you shall never return to my bed,” Oberyn murmurs, kissing her once more. He groans as her tongue reaches for his, before pulling away – his hand coming to carry her from the seat.

“If you will not take me,” She says, “why are you leading me to your bed?”

“You’re tired,” Oberyn explains, putting her between the furs, “and you’re still weeping. Sleep, Lya. We can talk in the morning if you wish to take me then.”

When she wakes in Oberyn’s chambers, to the sight of the Dornish Prince sleeping on a chaise beyond the bed, she searches for that bitterness she has grown so used to. It evades her, just as her anger does. And all of a sudden, in the sober light of day, Lyarra does not find herself turning away at the sight of Oberyn Martell. All she can find is a yearning for what once was, for the times they shared before it all fell apart.

Standing, Lyarra walks over to her sleeping Prince – her hands coming to cup his face. Blinking awake, those onyx eyes of his stare blearily up at her.

“Lya…” He whispers, only to have her silence his voice with a kiss.

“I’m not angry anymore,” Lyarra murmurs, licking into his mouth.

“What about Robb?” He whispers, as she sits atop him and throws off her tunic.

“I love him more every day,” Lyarra says, as he sits up to wrap her in his arms. He tastes of wine and berries when he kisses her, his tongue searching her mouth and begging for forgiveness. “But he has a Queen, and a babe named Alysanne…”

“… and when he sees you again,” Oberyn breathes, “he shall take you in his arms and you shall go to him.”

Lyarra nods, as his hands enter her breeches. She arches under the feel of his hands on her rear, spreading her cheeks apart before they round her hips. “Yes,” She agrees, moaning as his hands find her cunt, “I will.”

“And what of me?” He asks, slipping a finger inside of her. His lips are at her neck, his tongue tracing the scars that rest there. “Will he fuck you enough to make you forget about me?”

She groans as he adds another finger, stroking that spot so hard to reach by herself. “Most likely.”

Oberyn flips her over so he is lying atop her. His beard tickles her face, and his eyes blaze their anger. He slips his pants down, his arousal pressing into her thigh with a demand. She can feel the trail of come he leaves on her thigh, his cock already leaking. Lyarra shakes her breeches down, desperately needing him inside her as his mouth moves to suckle at her teat.

With a hiss, he holds his cock in his hand – tracing her lips with his head. She is so wet there is no friction there, only tantalising pleasure. He thrusts hard, entering her with a strength she has forgotten he possessed. “You will not forget me.”

Her back arches, his thrusts becoming harder as he hits a new angle. His hand comes to rest in the space between her breasts, flattening on her chest as he pummels her hard.

“No,” She says, between her moans. “Oberyn, _gods,_ Oberyn.”

His hand leaves her hips, his thumb going to that button she so loves. Pleasure shoots through her belly as her inner walls clench and unclench, the joy only he can bring overwhelming her as he pants out another question, “Will you deny me again? Will you forsake me for him?”

Her legs wrap around his hips as he presses down hard on her clit, a hard thrust meeting her every time he circles it. “Yes, yes, Oberyn, _gods_!”

He slows, his fingers slowing. “Answer me.”

He thrusts again, agonizingly slow, as her nails coming to scratch at his back. “I need… I need…”

“Answer me,” Oberyn growls, claiming her lips with his as he picks up the pace.

“Never,” She breathes, letting out a gasp as he thrusts hard – spilling deep inside her.

She cannot hold back as his hand circles her clit, again, and again, and again, before she too is falling with him.

Oberyn is still inside her as he captures her lips, tasting of lies and promises broken. “I love you.”

 _Don’t_ , she wishes to say.

“And when this is all done,” He says, kissing her again, “I want you to have my child.”

Lyarra heaves, her heart pounding against the confines as her chest as she bites out, “You have too many children as it is.”

“None with you,” He murmurs, his hand coming to her waist. “Would it be so bad, Lya, to love me as you love him? To wear my colours and become a Princess of Dorne? Our babes would be loved and you would be safe. I could keep you safe.”

Lyarra turns away, feeling cold despite everything else. “I don’t want to be a Princess.”

Oberyn’s hands still, his words touch freezing with his disappointment.  “I know.”

* * *

When the Queen announces her betrothal, Arianne Martell is nowhere to be found.  

Dorne celebrates the match of the dragon Queen to their returned son for all to see, and Lyarra itches in the gown she’s been forced to wear. She sits on the dais, dressed in silks of red and black. The corset digs tightly into her ribs, causing her stomach to churn from the remnants of the moon tea still in her system. She tries to ignore her nausea, instead distracted by the ridiculous neckline she has been forced into - her scars on display along with her shame.

But it is the jewels of black stone that she feels uncomfortable wearing, wanting nothing more than to rip them from her hair and neck. She is not a woman familiar with crowns or jewels of value, and yet the Queen seemed to want nothing more than to dress her up as a Princess. A Targaryen for all to see, Dany had proclaimed, with a smile she reserves for the privacy of her own chambers.

Lords and Ladies from across Dorne dance before them, to heady drums and heavy strings. The women wear gowns of yellow and orange, purple and red – resembling summer dusk. She can see Allyria Dayne and the sand snakes too, but it is the sight of the golden-haired Princess dancing with a Dornish Prince that takes her attention.  

Daenerys smiles at those that come to offer their blessings. The Dornish court is more than happy to accept the dragon Queen, who delivers them back a son thought dead. Daenerys is treated as a God here, but Lyarra suspects she is used to that feeling.

“On the morrow, we shall fly North,” Dany whispers to her, as she smiles at the dancers.

Lyarra’s head snaps up, her eyes wide. “What?”

“If there is a threat to my people, I want to see it,” Dany says, glancing to her. “I want you and Aegon to come too.”

Lyarra can barely think, let alone respond. All she can see is Robbs face – and hear his voice whispering her name.

“To Winterfell then?”

“To the Wall,” Dany says.

Lyarra deflates with disappointment, her stomach dropping. “Not Winterfell.”

“No,” The Queen says. “We won’t see the Others from your childhood home.”

Lyarra nods, knowing she should be used to disappointment. But she cannot stop the pure sorrow that fills her at the thought of heading North, and not seeing him. _So close,_ she thinks, _and yet even in the North, I will be separated from him._

Daenerys must notice her expression, for she covers her niece's hand with hers and smiles. “I had Lord Harrion send a raven to tell the King of our coming. If he happens to make it to the Wall in time, then so be it.”

Lyarra stills, her mouth opening in shock.

“Don’t ever say I’m not kind,” Dany says, squeezing her hand before she leans over her. “And Lyarra?”

She looks up, her heart racing.

“I expect you to remain a dragon,” Daenerys murmurs, “even when you wish to forget.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, fuck me dead 79 comments on the last chapter alone? Are you guys SERIOUS? Thank you so much. I'm genuinely blown away with all your feedback. Really, it makes my DAY to read your comments. 
> 
> This is intense. And on top of that, we reached one thousand kudos at only six chapters! Can you believe it? I can't. 
> 
> From the consensus of the comments, people are pretty split on the Oberyn/Lya vs Lya/Robb situation. I hope this chapter gives both ships its time. And the next chapter we'll have a VERY special reunion. 
> 
> A lot of you have commented that this story isn't going in the way you expected! That makes me so happy and it also surprises me a little bit! Let me know your predictions for the next few chapters! 
> 
> In terms of my week, I didn't write as much as I wanted to and with just one more pre-written chapter under my belt, my update schedule might suffer. I'll let you know in advance whether or not that happens though! You'll have to blame Maggie Rogers for fucking with my writing this week - I saw her on Wednesday and she was divine. I definitely have a big ol' girl crush on her. 
> 
> Let me know what you think about this chapter - I'm a slut for a good comment. I'm gonna go reply to some on the previous chapter now. 
> 
> Song Recs for this chapter: 
> 
> Back in my body by Maggie Rogers  
> Lovers by Anna of the North  
> Suite from Poldark by Anne Dudley  
> Mystery of Love by Sufjan Stevens 
> 
> In just general song recs for life, here's some pop bops for the week: 
> 
> Let you by Cheryl Cole  
> Never Really Over by Katy Perry  
> Just a boy by Olivia O'Brien


	8. Beyond the Wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Prophecy is like a half-trained mule. It looks as though it might be useful, but the moment you trust in it, it kicks you in the head." 
> 
> \--- Tyrion Lannister

Arianne is dressed in grey when she comes to see Lyarra off.

“It would be quite wondrous, I think, to ride a dragon,” Arianne says, looking to where Rhaegal stands.

Lyarra can see the red to Arianne’s eyes, the pallor to her skin. In all the days she has known Arianne Martell, she has never seen the heir to Sunspear wear such sorrow. Like any one of her gowns, she wears it beautifully – and as Lyarra approaches her, she wonders if Arianne’s tears are worth being wasted on the likes of Aegon Targaryen.

“Come to see me off?”

“I came to wish you good fortune on your journey North,” Arianne says, her eyes flicking to the dragons behind them.

Lyarra scoffs. Arianne may be a good liar to some, but Lyarra can see through her well enough. For all her words, she knows what the Dornish Princess has come to see. “You came to see _him_.”

Aegon and Daenerys are discussing the flight behind them, standing before their dragons. It is quite the sight, two silver-haired Valyrian’s standing before the beasts that claimed them. Lyarra imagines she looks awfully out of place before the Targaryens, her hair too dark and her skin too pale. It is only their eyes that link them, as does their blood.

“Yes,” Arianne admits with a nod, “but only a quick glimpse. I just want to see if he can truly climb a dragon.”

“I think you just want a quick glimpse at _him_ ,” Lyarra murmurs, taking her hand. “I am sorry, Arianne.”

“What good are apologies when nothing shall change?’” Arianne laughs, shaking her head. “My mother used to say that when lecturing Quentyn and I about what damage our father had done to their marriage. ‘Arianne’, she’d say, ‘men are monsters hidden by skin and bone, and we women are expected to endure them’. She told me that before she boarded a ship to Norvos. She wanted to take us with her, but we are Martells of Dorne and we do not belong in some palace in the East.”

Lyarra can imagine it easily. This woman, as beautiful and dark as Arianne, begging the Prince of Dorne to allow her to bring her children back to her homeland. But Doran Martell is not one to listen to pleas, as much as he may have sympathy for them. His age and his time as Prince have taught him to ignore such acts of weakness; and as such, Dorne has remained impartial for so long.

Arianne turns her eye on Lyarra, her expression ashen. “I’ve lived by that advice my entire life. When my father presented me to elderly suitors, I turned each away – monsters, I thought them. I was convinced my father was a monster too. I never thought Aegon was a monster… mayhaps I should have.”

Lyarra purses her lips. “Did you share his bed?”

“I wanted him so I had him,” Arianne says, a snort escaping her. “I’ve never had a King before.”

Lyarra turns to look at her brother, all silver-haired and indigo-eyed. He may have the look of a King but he would never truly wear the crown. His kingship would come through his wife, after all.

“He’s not a King,” Lyarra murmurs, “not yet.”

“Not yet.” Arianne turns to Lyarra, pressing a kiss to her friend’s hand. “Enjoy the North, my love - and come back to us.”

There is a plea in Arianne’s words. _Don’t stay there,_ they say, _as much as you may wish it._

“I have no choice,” Lyarra murmurs. “I am a Targaryen now in everything but name. In any case, I have no place in the North anymore.”

“Robb Stark is a fool if he does not find you a place,” Arianne whispers. “But we both know he will ask you to stay and when he does, you must remember all that has changed.”

“How could I forget?” Lyarra asks, looking to where Rhageal stands. “My body bears the scars of my change. I remember.”

“I know,” Arianne says, before smiling brilliantly. “Remember, Lya – men are monsters hidden by skin and bones…”

“… and we women are expected to endure them,” Lyarra repeats. “It is good advice.”

Arianne squeezes her hands, shaking her head. “You weren’t born to endure monsters, Lya. So don’t endure.”

Aegon watches Lyarra as she walks to Rhaegal, his eyes trapped on the woman behind her. Arianne is like a ghost among the sand, shrouded by her grief and false happiness. She can see the longing in Aegon’s eyes, despite all the pain longing may bring. “Is everything alright, sister?”

Lyarra saddles up to him, her eyes narrowed. “Fuck Arianne Martell again, and I shall kill you. Understand, brother?”

Aegon begins to stutter before he controls himself. “And what does it matter to you?”

“Arianne is a good friend,” Lyarra says simply, “and I don’t want to see her weep over a man. You may be my brother, Aegon, but a crime against my friends is something I can’t forget.”

Aegon grabs her by the arm, pulling her to him. “Do you always threaten death, sister?”

“Only when needed,” Lyarra japes, before her expression softens. “Arianne is not a plaything, Aegon, nor a whore. One day, she shall be Princess of Dorne and it won’t do well for the Princess of Dorne to hate her King. If you want your cock sucked, pay someone – or wait for your marriage and ask the Queen to kneel.”

His expression darkens. “It is dangerous to speak in such a way to a man meant to be King.”

“Dangerous for others, mayhaps,” Lyarra says, “but my dragon is bigger than yours and if you kill me, you lose the North. Besides, I am your sister – and I think you would like a sister. Make no mistake, Aegon, if you continue as you have been you'll make enemies more dangerous than me. And you wouldn't want to annoy your future lady wife, would you?”

All the uncertainty in Aegon is gone and in its place, a Prince stands. A Prince with a cocky smile. “So you are now my sister?”

“I like it better when you stutter,” Lyarra snipes, going to Rhaegal’s side.

“And I liked it better when you weren’t threatening my life!”

Climbing onto Rhaegal, Lyarra flexes her hands into the riding gloves, pulling up her hood and fastening her scarf over her lips. Prince Doran commissioned harnesses for the dragons to make riding easier, but even with a harness, Lyarra knows it shall be a hard flight. The winds of winter will be waiting for them in the sky – and there is nothing scarier than the chill winter brings.

“Lya.” Turning to look, Dany stands beside Rhaegal – her hand on his side. “When we fly over the Gift, remain vigilant. Stannis Baratheon’s army is stationed there, and the last thing we need is a battle.”

"Stannis Baratheon is no threat to dragons." Aegon laughs. "He'd couldn't even scare a smile off a child's face!" 

"You underestimate our enemies," Lya says, her voice slightly muffled under her scarf. "I'll keep an eye out, Dany." 

“Safe riding,” Dany wishes, “and stay close.”

From the air, Westeros is ravaged by war, greed, and winter. The carnage left by the bickering of five men can be seen on the land. Where green once existed, there is nothing but brown. Battlements that once held strong are now left in pieces, crumbled by a force that has since moved to another field, to another battle.

When Rhaegal reaches the Riverland’s, Lyarra can barely see the war anymore. The greenery is untouched and the river continues to flow, albeit dogged by parts of ice. It reminds her of the chill that plagues the air, so frosty that even her dragon cannot warm her. The cold makes her pity Aegon and Daenerys, two children of summer. With all their hardships, they were dragons through and through – and they were not meant for the cruelty of the cold.

Lyarra can feel herself breathe once more when they cross the Neck, a place she has not crossed in nearly two years. The last time she was this far North she had been but a girl, betrothed to a bastard and consumed with anger for a dead man walking. _The world was so much easier when I was a bastard Snow and Eddard Stark was alive._

The Queen's warnings were true enough and when Rhaegal soars high above the Gift, she can see the threat that is Stannis Baratheon. The second son, the least favoured son, claiming his birthright to a throne she is sure he never wanted. _This war has twisted us into strangers,_ she thinks, _into things we never wished to become._

But it is the Wall that truly steals her attention, a wall she has never seen but heard so much about. Her Uncle Benjen had spent hours telling her of its brilliance and of its vengeance. Once, he even promised to take her there – when she was a woman grown enough to wield a sword.

“ _I will not subject any woman without a blade to the vile that man the Wall,”_ He had explained, twirling a lock of her hair between his fingers. “ _And neither would your father.”_

Rhaegal lands outside Castle Black, his large wings raising snow and dirt alike. The cold has dipped now, wrapping around her lungs and robbing her of any breath left. Rhaegal lets out a shudder, the fire within him burning brighter than she has ever seen before. Lyarra pats at his neck, trying to calm him as best she can.

“It’s alright,” She murmurs, not knowing the words in Valyrian. “We shall rest for a while, my love.”

Rhaegal almost purrs in satisfaction at the sound of her voice, his head twisting to look at her as she slides off his back. Rummaging through the leather pouch she carries, she throws him some elk meat as she waits. The other dragons land, Viserion somewhat clumsily, while Drogon handles himself with a vengeance.

Placing her hand on Rhaegal’s side, Lyarra feels him jolt at the feel of his siblings. “Quiet, now,” Lyarra murmurs, “it’s just the others.”

Rhaegal breathes out in a huff, his copper eyes blinking at her in frustration. She can feel his hunger hankering on the edges, begging to be satiated. Lyarra rolls her eyes, digging into her pouch and collecting another piece of elk. When she throws it, and another piece just for safety, Rhaegal offers her a hum of satisfaction – his breath coming out in steam.

Looking around at her surroundings, Lyarra spies the giant gates opening before her and she knows that the Nights Watch awaits them. Striding forward, Lyarra pulls her scarf away from her lips and throws her hood down, her raven braids spilling out as she looks for the others. Dany is walking towards her, Aegon at her side.

“Baratheon has more men than we thought,” Dany snaps, taking her own scarf from her face. She looks every bit the dragon in her black riding leathers, her jerkin covered in black scales and fur stripped from a bear. “I thought most of them were gone after the Blackwater.”

“Obviously not,” Aegon drawls, “but it is not Stannis Baratheon we have come to see.”

Lyarra is not paying attention – her eyes trapped on the opening gates and her legs moving before she can stop them. Striding into the bustling yard, her eyes find the Night's Watch she has heard so much about. Rapists, murderers, and thieves stare at her, their eyes wide at the sight of this purple-eyed woman. Lyarra knows she must look a sight – her hair braided and her eyes sharp, dressed in tight riding leathers and black furs.

But she cannot focus on the men of the Night's Watch. Instead, her eyes are drawn to the men wearing Stark colours. She hasn’t’ seen such a sight in years; the last time culminating in her capture. Turning, Lyarra can see some men recognise her, their mouths shaping to murmur her name.

She turns on her heel as she feels something knock into her. Looking down, she meets eyes of red.

“Ghost!” She cries, falling to her knees.

Her wolf is yapping and yelping, his tongue coming out to lick her face and circle around her. Lyarra knows she is weeping, feeling tears slip down her cheeks and freeze almost instantly. But she doesn’t care, not when Ghost is before her and she can finally _breathe_. He has been a part of her for years – and for years, she has been separated from him.

“I missed you, boy,” Lyarra weeps, pressing a kiss to his head. “Gods, have I missed you.”

 _But if Ghost is here…_ she thinks, the realisation striking her like lightning. Standing, Lyarra surveys the yard once more in a desperate attempt to find him – a man whose name she is too reluctant to even say. In the cold of winter, his absence leaves her bereft. Like the Wall behind her, she finds herself icing over; her heart bleeding with every beat.

Lyarra has seen blades and battle, wore scars a plenty, but no pain could compare to his absence. Every moment she spends searching for him, she can feel the cracks in her heart splintering once more. _Remember me,_ her grief asks, _for I haven’t forgotten you._

Sucking in a lung full of freezing air, Lyarra turns to find the men before her coming to kneel. The men of the Night's Watch even take to their knee, black and grey alike kneeling in the snow. They look beyond her, though her, above her – to a man that robs her of her breath the same as any blade.

Robb Stark is different than she remembers. His hair has grown unruly, just as red as the autumn leaves that no longer existed. His beard is darker, fuller than she has ever seen it. Something stirs deep within her gut, a memory of that beard tickling her thighs as he took his mouth to her heat. But the feeling is quickly gone, replaced by the grief that she knows so well, that his eyes hold so well.

Those Tully eyes, once bright and strong, have become darker over time. Where they once held life, they now hold death; death… and misery. She can see his mouth mouthing her name before she hears it in the air – breaking the silence that had crept over the yard.

And suddenly, she is running, sprinting towards him. Her heart thuds and with every beat, it says _Robb, Robb, Robb._ This man she has dreamed of, this man who has terrorised her, this man her grief has become, is here. He’s standing before her, alive and well and _here_. He’s not a dream, he’s not a vision; he’s flesh and bone and he’s no monster.

When she reaches him, not even the Stranger himself could stop her from jumping into his arms. His arms wrap around her, his lips murmuring her name like a hymn, and she is home. Nothing could compare to the feel of his arms around her, his heart beating against hers; and she knows whatever comfort she has found in their separation has been a fraud.

“Lya, Lya, gods, Lya,” is all she can hear, as the scent of pine and snow burns her nostrils. _Winter,_ she thinks. _Home._

“Robb,” She whimpers, her tears freezing as soon as they leave her. Her hands come to grip his hair, pulling him tighter to her. She wants to strip his jerkin from his skin, and place her bare flesh on his.

He pulls back to look at her, his lips inches from hers. She wants nothing more than to close the distance, to swallow his breath and taste him once more. She has forgotten what it feels like, but she is clinging to the memory of it all the same.

“Lya,” He chokes, crying too. Lyarra wonders what his men see – their King clinging to his sister turned cousin and weeping. She goes to wipe his face, her gloved hands trembling. And then he moves to close the distance, to kiss her.

“Not here,” She pleads, embracing him once more. “Not here.”

Robb lets out a sob, muffled by her neck. Lyarra closes her eyes tightly, wanting nothing more than to run with him beyond the Wall – and escape all their problems. Escape dragons, and wolves, and wives, and babes. She wants to escape it all, and just be Robb and Lya.

But the world does not allow for want, and so she separates from him, wiping her face and storing her sorrow back in the cage she keeps it.

Daenerys and Aegon are watching them, these wolves reunited. She can see the confusion in Aegon’s eyes, but there is nothing but clarity in the Queen's gaze; clarity, and understanding.

“The Queen is here,” Lyarra explains. “We have come to see the Others.”

“I know.” Robb clears his face of his sorrow too, his expression holding nothing of the sadness he showed moments prior. Instead, he stares at the dragons – silver, and white, and everything she is not.

Daenerys smiles when Robb stands before her, neither kneeling to the other. “The King in the North.”

“The Dragon Queen,” Robb returns, towering over her. He looks like a true man of the North in his large furs and leather jerkin, his eyes holding none of the awe others showed when looking upon Daenerys Targaryen. “Thank you for coming to the Wall.”

“I came to see if it was true,” Daenerys says, seeming every bit the Queen she was. “If the Others are coming, I want to see them.”

“The Others,” Robb says, sounding so much like his father, “and winter too.”

“And this is Aegon,” Lyarra introduces. “Rhaegars son.”

“And her brother,” Aegon says, his smile wide as he offers his hand. “Your grace.”

Robb stares at his hand, his lips curling at the Aegon’s title. _Brother,_ Lyarra thinks, _something he once was._ “It seems we have much to discuss,” Robb mutters, taking Aegon’s hand, “and so little time.”

Lyarra wants to take Robb aside, and embrace him again but as soon as she takes his hand, and attempts to pull him away from prying eyes, Daenerys cautions her with a look.

“We must meet with the Lord Commander before we attend to other issues,” The Queen rules, her lips pursing. “Reunions can wait.”

Lyarra levels her Aunt with a withering glare. “Dany.”

“We are not here for anything but the dead,” Daenerys reminds her, her own hand coming to grasp Lyarra’s arm. “Remember the real threat.”

Lyarra turns to Robb, filled with warring emotions. She can see he is at battle with himself as well, a thousand words floating in his Tully eyes. She wants to tell him everything, and nothing all at the same time. She doesn’t want to tell him about Tywin Lannister, or Rhaegal, or anything that would make her different from the woman he once loved.

But she is different… she is a dragon now, after all.

Squeezing his hand, Lyarra accepts her fate. “We shall talk later,” Lyarra promises before she climbs the stairs to the keep.

When they enter the hall, they are met with the sight of the Lord Commander. Jeor Mormont has the eyes of Bear Island. They are the eyes of Maege, and Dacey, and Jorah. Lyarra cannot help but smile at the sight of them, filled with memories of her years spent with the ladies of House Mormont.

But it is the man beside him, withered by time and war, that captures her attention. He wears maesters robes and she notices his smile, so broad that it looks out of place in this keep of sinners.

“Lord Commander,” Daenerys says. “My name is…”

“…Daenerys Targaryen,” The Maester finishes, almost choking on her name. “The Mother of dragons. Come, child, I must see you.”

Daenerys looks taken aback, but her kindness pushes her feet forward until she is standing before the elderly Maester. He reaches out, his hands coming to her hair first, and then her face.

“I have waited years to see a dragon again,” The man whispers, tears slipping down his cheeks. He lets out a breathy laugh, almost hysterical. Lyarra looks to Robb for answers, but he stares straight ahead – stoic in his reserve. “Where are the others? Where are Rhaegar's babes?”

“Lyarra and Aegon are here,” Daenerys explains, her face softening at the sight of the frail man. “We came to see the dead.”

“The dead,” The Maester echoes, more tears escaping him. “I have spent 18 years haunted by the ghosts of my House. When the ravens brought the news from the South, I could not believe it. The ruin of my House, the death of my family. The Gods had waited until I was old to test my vows; until they knew I could do little to help my kin.”

Lyarra steps forward, coming to stand beside Daenerys. “Who are you?”

“My father was Maekar, the first of his name. My brother Aegon reigned after him when I had refused the throne. He was followed by Aerys, whom they called the Mad King.”

Daenerys’ breath hitches, as Lyarra looks to Robb for confirmation. He nods. She turns back to the elderly maester, her great Uncle three times over. “You’re Aemon Targaryen.”

“And you are the daughter of my great nephew,” Aemon chokes, coming to cup her face in his wrinkled hands. “Oh, but how the flames burn in you, child. A true daughter of ice and fire.”

Lyarra steps back, recognising the words. Maester Aemon’s eyes shine with understanding, a giddiness she does not want to accept. Turning away, Lyarra rots with the knowledge of the secrets Maester Aemon may keep; secrets she knows she does not want to hear.

The Lord Commander wastes no time on pleasantries as he begins the meeting.

“These creatures can only be killed by three things: fire, dragonglass and valyrian steel,” The Lord Commander says. “When we fight them with anything else, we die. And when we lose men, they resurrect them. So it goes.”

Daenerys breathes deeply. “But surely the Wall will keep them out?”

“These creatures are intelligent,” The Lord Commander explains. “They wield swords of ice better than most knights and they control the dead. If they wish to cross the wall, I’m sure they will. In time.”

“In time,” Aegon echoes. “Time we don’t have.”

Lyarra looks up, finding Robb staring at her. His eyes blaze with more fire than three dragons combined, his hands digging into his breeches. Beside him sits the Blackfish, a man who seems to have grown more impatient in the years since she last saw him. He watches his nephew watching her, his expression growing more somber by the minute.

Lyarra looks away.

“It’s enough,” Lyarra says, meeting the eyes of the Lord Commander. “So the Others create these wights, and then what? Do they control them?”

“It appears so,” Lord Mormont says. “We think they’re being led by one of these creatures.”

“The Night King,” Lyarra mutters, remembering the stories. Targaryen eyes land on Lyarra and she flushes beneath their scrutiny. “It’s an old story told to Northern children about a Lord Commander who sold his soul for the woman he loved. He ruled over the Long Night until Brandon the Breaker saw him destroyed. He is thought to have made sacrifices to the Others. Some even say in death he became one of them.”

Robb is watching Lyarra speak, his eyes trapped on hers. She wonders if he too recalls the long nights spent filled with Old Nan’s tales; stories of Kings of Winter and men beyond the Wall. They once huddled together beside the large hearth, listening as Winterfell’s oldest inhabitant spoke of old whispers.

“But it is a story, no?” Daenerys asks. “They may not have a leader.”

“They are led by death,” Robb says, his voice as cold as the air outside. “The Stranger, the reaper, whatever you may call him. They want to see the Long night returned – and they will kill anyone who stands in their way.”

“So we kill them before they kill us,” Aegon says. “You said fire kills them. We have creatures that _breathe_ it.”

“And they have more dead to their army than men in Westeros,” Robb snaps, his hand clenching at the arm of his chair. The sight of the King in the North angry is a one many have seen and yet few survived it. In his rage, Lyarra thinks Robb Stark could rival any King of Winter; even the Night King himself. “If we don’t act soon, it will be too late. Winter shall come and Westeros shall be overrun by the dead.”

“Surely the Wall will not fall,” Lyarra murmurs, attracting the eyes of Robb. She is desperate to speak to him without the prying eyes of others, but there is no room for want here; not when the dead are approaching.

“The Wall may fall,” The Lord Commander says. “If under enough strain, it shall fall.”

“Then it is settled: we fight the dead before the wall can fall,” Aegon decides.

Daenerys looks unconvinced, her teeth gnawing into her lip. “Will we need my armies to defeat them, or will dragons be enough?”

“Dragons are destruction,” Maester Aemon croaks, “but even destruction is no match for death.” He smiles then. “If the prophecy rings true, it will be the Prince who was promised that shall defeat the dead, and his is the song of ice and fire.”

Robb turns to her, his hard eyes glaring a hole into her side as the others look her way. She can see the confusion that consumes Daenerys… and the anger that consumes Aegon.

“We should go beyond the wall while we’re here,” Lyarra says, hoping to distract them. “We should see the threat we’re facing.”

Daenerys nods stiffly, glancing to the Lord Commander. “We shall spend the night here, Lord Commander, if possible. We shall go beyond the wall on the morrow.”

* * *

When they are finally alone, they stand leagues apart – separated by time and pain.

Robb wears grief as his cloak, so changed by the days they have spent apart. Like her, he is a fractured person; broken by the Gods as they saw fit. She has spent more than a year imagining his face but never had she thought him as changed as she is. Even in her dreams, he is not as broken as the man that stands before her.

_But war breaks us all and shatters what little humanity we have left._

Lyarra wonders if she is so different to him. She wonders if he sees her how she once was, the free and wild warrior she had grown to be, or does he see the woman the South had turned her into? She may wear the skin of Lyarra Snow, but she is nothing like the girl that Robb knew. She has been butchered, tortured and abused, all for the whims of men more powerful than she. She has been stripped of her name, identity and dignity too, all for the whims of men wanting more power.

Does he see her as she is now, she wonders, or does he see the girl he once loved? _I am what each person wants me to be,_ she thinks. _Robert Baratheon wanted me to be my mother, Tywin Lannister wanted me to be a trading tool and Oberyn Martell wants me to be his wife. Robb has been the only man to ever love me without ghosts blinding his vision._

She suspects that will be different now. And as dread creeps through her body, she waits for him to say the words: _I don’t want you anymore._

“For a year, I have dreamt of you,” Robb begins. “I’ve dreamt of your eyes. I’ve dreamt of your body. I’ve dreamt of your smile. When I wake, I see you. I see you around every corner of Winterfell, playing in the glass gardens or praying in the Godswood. I see you in every flower and in every storm. Gods, how you’ve haunted me, Lyarra.”

Lyarra feels her breath escape her, her heart thudding faithfully.

“I have spent a year thinking of you, wondering how you fare and if you are safe. I have spent a year wondering if I would ever see you again – and if I did, would you still want me?” Robb breaks off, tears trailing down his face. It is so strange to see such a heavily bearded man weep so freely, his sobs shaking his whole body. “When Tywin Lannister sent me your skin, I was willing to go to war for you. I wanted to march on Kings Landing and take their heads. I wanted to do to them what they had done to us. And I couldn’t.”

“Instead, I had to make peace… and gods, how it killed me.” Robb steps forward, his eyes crazed. “I am so sorry, Lya. I am so sorry for leaving you there. I am so sorry for not saving you. I am so desperately sorry for letting you suffer…” His voice breaks, his tears overwhelming him. “I have failed you.”

His words force the breath from her lungs and control from her emotions. She can feel every part of the love she has towards him, every part of her resentment, and every part of her grief. These contradicting feelings scream for attention, using her body as a battlefield as they paint her insides grey.

Lyarra wants to scream a thousand screams; weep a thousand tears. But she is tired, her convictions badly beaten by the time that has passed and the exhaustion she now carries. In a time before dragons and the dead, Lyarra thinks rage would have come for Robb Stark. Yet she has no rage left, not for him at least.

 _He left you to rot,_ a voice reminds her, taunting her with images of Tywin Lannister leering over her. For Robb’s inaction, Lyarra paid in blood. For his diplomacy, she suffered. And for his treaty of peace, she was thrown to the lions. It is a thought loud enough to stir hatred within her, a hatred she wants to paint the world with.

But she can’t be mad, not when she knows the truth. _I left him,_ she thinks, _and we both paid the price._

“I have thought of you every day,” Lyarra murmurs, stepping forward. It feels like she is walking in a dream she is yet to wake; a dream she does not want to wake from. “And every day, I have missed you.”

Robb looks up, his Tully eyes holding a river of their own.

Lyarra cups his cheeks, her thumbs drawing patterns into his cheek. “You think it has been killing you? I have died a thousand times under the weight of my yearning for you. When Tywin was atop me, I thought of you. When I went to Dorne, I thought of you. And when I climbed on the back of a dragon, I thought of _you_. The Gods made sure you haunted me, just as I haunted you.”

Robb looks like the boy she once knew, not the King she has grown to love. He is the child from her memories once more; small in the shadow of his father and the war he fought in. Robb was never meant to be the warrior he became. The wars were meant to be done, the fighting over. But when Eddard Stark lost his head, Westeros lost the quiet he had fought for.

Now, Robb was a haunted man. The ghosts of his kin hang over him, their shadow too large and too heavy. It is obvious, from the look of him, that Robb Stark is not the man he should have been. Ned Stark bled for peace and Robb Stark bled for justice. _We are broken people, made up of our pain and pleasures,_ Lyarra thinks. _War has ruined us just as we ruined the peace._

She wants to wrap him in her arms as she has so often dreamt. But she knows there is something she has to do before she can open herself to him again, something demanding resolution.

Lyarra strokes his cheeks once more, before whispering, “You broke my heart by not coming for me,” She whispers, watching as his face folds in grief. “It felt as if you abandoned me, left me to those people.”

He apologises once more, the words coming out slurred with his weeping.

“I don’t say this to hurt you,” Lyarra says, wiping away the tears that fall. “I never want to hurt you. But you have to know that I am not the woman you fought alongside, that you loved. Tywin Lannister sought to ruin me – and he did. He stole my strength, and my recklessness, and my youth.” Her hands go to her face, tracing the scars he left. “They gave me these as well… a permanent reminder of what they made me.”

Robb closes his eyes, seeming far older than his years. She knows her words have injured him, but she cannot let him think she is the same. She cannot allow him to look at her as he once did, with the same wonder and admiration and not know the truth. Time has twisted her into something she never was: _scarred._

His hands come to cover hers, his calluses rough on her skin. Lyarra shuts her eyes tightly, scared to see his face when he says the words she has so dreaded: _I don’t want to you anymore._

“Do you think I’m so weak to be distracted by scars?” Robb asks, the severity in his voice forcing her eyes open. “When I look at you, I see steel stronger than any blade, I see the old Gods and the new. When I look at you, I see the woman I love. No blade, nor Lord could change that.”

Robb tightens his hold on her face, almost shaking her. “And Tywin Lannister did **not** ruin you. You are ice made flesh and no lion or dragon could change that.”

Lyarra lets out the breath she didn’t realise she had been holding in, only for it to be taken away again as Robb claims her lips. For the first time in a year, Lyarra feels fire ravage her body and soul. It is not wildfire or dragon flame, but a blaze of lust only Robb inspires. And gods, how she suffocated without it.

His arms come to her waist, pulling her closer to his body. Their hearts thunder against each other's chest, each singing the others name. But while their hearts race, their lungs beg for air. Their bodies are desperate for each other, so much so that breathing does not seem so necessary at this point.

In all her time away from him, she has imagined this moment. His lips, his touch, his  _taste._ On her tongue, there is winter. In her nose, there is pine. And in her heart, there is love.

Her hands come to his jerkin, ripping it string by string. She needs to see him bare, and she needs it now.

“Gods, Lya,” Robb gasps, as she pushes off the leathers and takes in his naked chest. There are more scars, yes, and more hair. Manhood has come upon him and she missed it. _I won’t miss it any longer._

Her lips go from his mouth to his neck, to his collarbone. Her tongue lavishes the taste of him. _Winterberries,_ she thinks, as she suckles at his neck. _He tastes of winterberries._ Her tunic is finally thrown to the floor and suddenly, she is standing before him, her torso just as naked as his.

Her lips leave his neck and her feet take a step back. Only one person has seen her so bare since King’s Landing, and it mattered not what _he_ thought. He hadn’t seen her skin before, not when it was free of blemish and scars. _But that was before the war,_ she thinks, _and before Tywin Lannister._

Robb’s eyes appraise her, from her rosebud nipples to the scars that cut into alabaster skin. The marks are cracks in clean marble, dark streaks of past mutilation and torture. Like her skin, Robb’s eyes are tortured. Lyarra knows what he must see. _Ugly,_ she thinks, as she covers herself with her arms.

“No,” He chokes, pulling at her arms. “I wish to see.”

Lyarra’s are burning as shame and embarrassment flooding her. She doesn’t want him to see. The last time he had seen her nude was a year prior before small blades tore at her skin. The last time he saw her like this, she had been beautiful. And now, she was nothing but a stitched version of her former self.

Lyarra had never thought herself vain, but as her soul suffered, so had her skin. It is hard to see it so mutilated; to see the evidence of her shame carved into her flesh. It acts as a reminder of what happened – a reminder that for all she may be free now, her skin would always be marked by his name.

Instead of repelling as she expects, Robb steps forward. His hand comes to trace the scar on her collarbone before he leans down to kiss it.

“Beautiful,” He says, as he kisses the jagged line cutting into her right breast. “Beautiful,” He says again, as his lips touch the raised edges of the scar marrying her sternum. “Beautiful,” He says, as he kisses the overlapping lines on her stomach. “So, so beautiful.”

He is on his knees by the end of it, his lips on her hip bone, fingers at the waistband of her breeches. He takes off her boots first before his hands go to the strings at her pants. Slowly, he pulls them down, past her knees and ankles, taking her small clothes with it.

And finally, she is nude.

“Beautiful,” He says, as he meets her eyes. “You could never be anything but beautiful to me, Lya.”

“Robb…” Lyarra whispers as she watches the King in the North remain on his knees. Her hands find his curls, red and brilliant and wild, as he turns to her pelvis. Breathing deeply, his fingers come to trace the scar at the top of her thigh. It is her ugliest mark; for the skin there had been ripped away and sent to him.

“Beautiful,” He whispers again, leaning his head against her thigh. He squeezes his eyes shut, the tears running down his cheeks once more as he chokes out, “and alive.”

“And alive,” Lyarra repeats, running her hands through his hair.

Robb looks up at her once more, his sorrow quickly replaced with the fire she had felt just moments ago. Moving from her thigh to the patch of curls that protects her cunt, Robb brings his fingers to separate her folds – exposing a show of pink to his eyes. Lyarra feels her breath hitch in the back of her throat as he leans forward to taste her.  

Robb takes her by the hips, his tongue coming out and licking her. His fingers enter her at the same time as he begins to suck at that button she so loves, licking back and forth. Lyarra grips at his curls as her body goes up in flames, her pleasure an explosion she is more than happy to succumb to.

She reaches her peak within minutes, her legs collapsing out from under her with a shout. Lyarra falls into his lap, her body on fire at his touch. Like her dragon, he makes her burn. She has always been scared of fire, but she knows she would gladly walk into the flames for him.

When Robb captures her lips once more, she can taste herself on his tongue. Herself, and him, mixed together. She wants to savour the taste, for fear it shall be another year before she has it again. Her fears crawl up and suddenly she is grasping at him desperately, her hands at the strings of his breeches and her breath coming out in sharp gasps.

When Lyarra finally sees him, hard and ready for her, she knows she can wait no longer. Shoving down his breeches, she pushes him down. He watches her with a heady gaze as she grips his cock, silk surrounding steel, lining herself up and sliding down on him.

It is not as she remembers, nor as she dreamt. It does not make her see constellations or take away the pain of the last year. But when she opens her eyes and finds his staring back at her, it feels as if she can finally breathe. It is like surfacing from the waves of the summer sea, her lungs screaming for air.

She has been deprived of him for a year and finally, it feels right again. The world may end in ice and fire, but at least she had him; this man she had dreamt of and mourned.

“I love you,” He breathes out, as he sits up to claim her lips. Thrusting deeply, Lyarra lets out a moan in his mouth – her nails raking down his back. “Gods, how I’ve missed you.”

Flipping her, her back digs into the cold stone as Robb grips her hips – thrusting again and again. His thumb goes to that button at the top of her center, drawing circles in her flesh as he pulls moans from her lips. The coil, so familiar and warm, makes itself known in the depths of her gut. With each passing moment, it tightens and tightens and tightens... until it snaps back.

The explosion that comes from her peak is unlike any dragon fire or wild flames. It is ice, cold shooting through her veins and burning each and every cell. _This is winter,_ it says, _and he is it’s King._

She can hear a dragon screech outside, along with the howls of Ghost and Grey Wind. _They can feel it,_ she thinks.

Robb comes quickly afterward, shooting deep inside her as his thrusts still. She is still recovering from the pleasure of her peak, her body trembling from the power of it. Collapsing at her side, heat pours from him and through to her. She wonders if he has been set alight by her fire as she has been burned by his ice.

Turning on his side, Robb pulls her to his chest – his hand resting on her waist. “Thank you,” He says, quietly.

Lyarra looks up, confused.

“I didn’t think you would want me,” Robb murmurs, his expression twisting into torment. “After all that I have done, I thought you would take one look at me and tell me to leave.”

“I thought the same,” Lyarra admits.

Robb winces. “Then we are both fools.”

Lyarra wonders if this is the reason she could never love Oberyn. What she shared with Robb was not infatuation, nor was it something as fleeting as lust. Robb knew her soul better than the rest; better than Oberyn, or Arianne, or Dacey, or Dany. Robb knew her for the woman she was, not the creature pain had turned her into. And she knew him all the same, better than his wife and his mother too. She can see beneath the crown and his scarred skin to know the man dogged by uncertainty and grief.

They are two pieces of a broken soul; two sides of one coin. _He is mine, and I am his_. That she is certain.

They are quiet for a moment, the silence comforting amongst the turmoil of their reunion. Lyarra’s body aches slightly from the urgency of their coupling, while her heart thrums with satisfaction.

It is Robb that breaks the silence. “I couldn’t believe it when Howland Reed told me the truth. I couldn’t believe that father would lie about something like that. Until I remembered what father had done in King’s Landing.”

Confusion courses through her.

Robb explains, “Father gave up his honour for the safety of Sansa and Arya. He declared himself a traitor to protect those he loved. Father chose love over honour, as he had done when he went to that Tower in Dorne and claimed you as his own.”

Robb comes to brush a curl away from her eyes, his smile mournful. “Maester Aemon likes to say that love is the death of duty. I believe it. Eddard Stark’s love for his sister stripped him of his honour in the eyes of the world. My love for you has done the same.”

Lyarra sits up. “You are the most honourable man I know.”

“Does an honourable man forsake the woman he loves for a bridge?” Robb asks. “Does an honourable man marry a woman he cannot bear to look at? Does an honourable man leave his kin, his love, in the grips of lions that sought to destroy her? I can’t sleep, can’t breathe, without knowing what pain I let you suffer.”

“And what would you have done, Robb?” Lyarra asks. “Would you have taken your depleted armies to Kings Landing and then what? The Lannisters had the allegiance of the Tyrell’s. They would have destroyed you.”

“I could have…”

“No,” Lyarra murmurs, placing her fingers on his lips. “There is nothing you could have done differently. I know that and you should too.” Lyarra swallows deeply, the words too thick in her throat. “As for your wife… you did your duty as she did hers.”

“Do you hate me?” Robb asks, so uncertain. “I have lain with another woman. She has borne my child.”

“I know,” Lyarra whispers, looking away from him then. The truth weighs heavily on her chest; a truth she does not want to say. But she must. She knows she must. “I don’t hate you. I could never hate you.” She takes a sharp breath, before continuing, “Your sins were duty bound. Mine were not.”

Robb sits up, confusing plaguing his face. “Lya?”

“I laid with Oberyn Martell,” Lyarra blurts out, anguish in her voice. “After months alone, I wanted comfort. He was my friend and I felt alone. And so I… I took him to my bed.”

Confusion erodes into betrayal. Love turns to anguish. And she can feel every ounce of happiness become ravaged by her guilt.

“You have to understand,” Lyarra says, drawing her knees to her chest. “When I arrived at Dorne, everything I knew was stripped away from me. I was no longer a Stark bastard; I was a Targaryen one. Eddard Stark was no longer my father and you were no longer my brother and gods, how I hated it. Everything I had been told was a lie – and I felt forsaken.”

The truth is an ugly thing, so she can do nothing but whisper it, “Oberyn was there for me. He was kind and gentle and he wanted me, this broken, ugly version of myself. He wanted me when I was so convinced you would not.”

“So you fucked him?” Robb asks, tormented.

Lyarra nods.

“For how long?” Robb questions, agony ripping through his features. She doesn’t want to answer him, and he can tell. “When was the last time?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Tell me.”

“A week ago.”

Robb stands, cursing loudly as he reaches for his breeches. Lyarra watches him as he dresses, her heart shattering with each moment passed. She knew this would happen; of course, she knew this would happen. But seeing it still broke her heart, no matter how much Obara claimed that couldn’t happen.

“Robb, please…” Lyarra begs. “I did what I had to survive – just as you did your duty.”

Robb closes his eyes, his tunic in hand as he starts for the door. “I laid with her once, Lyarra. Just once. When I climbed atop her, it was your face I thought of, your lips I imagined. And while I grieved over my guilt, you were fucking a Dornish Prince.”

Lyarra bows her head, her tears coming thick. “I’m sorry.”

“As am I.”

* * *

It is a restless sleep, but Lyarra knows she should at least try to get some rest.

No matter how hard she tries, however, she continues to toss and turn. After three hours of shifting in her uncomfortable bed, she knows there will be no more sleep to be had. So she is sitting up when her door creaks open, Robb’s familiar face meeting her gaze.

“Hello,” Lyarra says, rather pathetically.

“Hello.” He shuts the door behind him, staring at the roaring fire in the hearth as he shrugs off his cloak. Snow is in his hair; _he must have been walking on the wall._ Turning, he faces her once more – his eyes filled with the same guilt plaguing her. “I’m sorry for how I reacted before.”

Lyarra’s eyes widen in surprise.

“I don’t like what you have done with Oberyn Martell,” Robb begins, his voice poisonous. “I hate it, actually. But I cannot let you fly beyond the wall tomorrow thinking I am angry with you.”

“Angry with me?” Lyarra echoes. “You looked like you hated me.”

“I could never hate you,” Robb says, mirroring her words from earlier. “I was angry; angry that you had sought comfort from a man that wasn’t me. Angry that I am not the only one who has known you.”

The truth is venomous as she spits out, “But I am no longer the only woman who has known you. Not anymore.”

Robb comes to stand before her bed, fingering the furs. “It was unfair of me to expect you to remain as I had not. I know that now.” Breaking off, he meets her gaze. “I have spent a year yearning for you. Now that you’re here, I’m not going to be blinded by anger over something already done.”

Lyarra bites her lip, feeling so tired of anger. Pulling back her furs, she pats the bed. “Come then,” Lyarra murmurs. “We both need to sleep before dawn breaks.”

Robb eyes the bed before he tugs off his tunic and pulls off his breeches. Joining her, he circles her in his arms and presses a soft kiss to her lips.

“Without this war, none of this would have happened,” Robb murmurs, tightening his hold on her. “Let us hate war rather than each other.”

Lyarra cups his cheeks relieved that he had forgiven her. “Then war we shall hate, Egg.”

They speak for hours, rest almost certainly forgotten. They speak of Sansa and Arya, of Bran and Rickon. They never talk of his daughter, though – mayhaps that is because it’s too late in the night to raise such pain and for now, Lyarra doesn’t mind the lack of knowledge. She wants to drown in her ignorance surrounding the Queen in the North and her Princess; if not for one more night.

When their words finish, their bodies start. Robb spends hours reacquainting himself with her flesh, his hands trailing every scar, every crevice. He presses more kisses to her scars, lavishes her with more praise. She feels unworthy of it all, but there is a part of her, the vain part, that delights in the knowledge that _he still loves her._

There had been so much uncertainty this past year, so much doubt, that knowing his true feelings was something of a relief. It eases her pain, like a balm to an open wound. Yet she knows such ease will drip away as the days continue, for nothing is ever as easy as it first seems.

When they finally rouse from their bed, dawn is breaking over the wall. She goes to break her fast first – knowing her family shall already be awake.

“Looking a bit peaky, sister,” Aegon says as she sits down to break her fast. He had easily noticed the shadows beneath her eyes, evidence of her lack of sleep. “Get enough sleep last night?”

“Leave her alone, Aegon,” Dany snaps, hiding her smile behind her cup of tea. She sits at the head of the dais in the empty hall; the men of the Night's Watch still asleep in their beds. Dawn is breaking over the wall, the light streaming atop the ice structure and into the windows. It splinters through the stained glass, creating patterns in the dark wood.

“Of course, your grace,” Aegon sings, “I wouldn’t want to embarrass Lya.”

“Of course not,” Dany murmurs, a grin pulling at her lips now. “Besides, Lya was probably awoken by the same screams that woke up the rest of the keep last night.”

Lyarra’s head snaps up.

“You must have heard them,” Aegon teases. “It sounded as if someone was having a quarrel with the King in the North. Come to think of, they kept screaming his name.”

Lyarra throws a hard roll of bread at her brother. “Shut up, stupid.”

Daenerys breaks into giggles, seeming far younger than the crown she wore. Aegon follows her, bellowing loudly enough to wake up the entire keep. And soon enough, she is laughing with them. Her cheeks flush red, her sides splinter and joy fills her chest. She hasn’t laughed this hard in moons, and the warmth it brings is enough to combat the winter winds.

Robb enters the hall at their laughter, his hair wilder than ever before and his neck painted purple. Her dragon kin takes one look at him before their laughter explodes once more. Aegon has to turn away, his hands coming to cover his face while the Queen wipes away her tears.

“Morning,” Robb murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck.

The laughter finally ceases when the King in the North comes to sit at their table, serving himself from the dishes in the centre. Lyarra offers him a beaming smile as discussion returns to something more reasonable.

“When will you take flight?” Robb asks, taking a bite of his eggs.

“Once the sun has well and truly risen,” Daenerys explains. “We need light if we’re going to see the dead.”

“But you know not to get too close to them?” Robb questions. “It is better to see them from a distance.”

“Yes,” Aegon agrees. “We’ll be sure to keep within the clouds.”

“Don’t fret, Robb,” Lyarra soothes, placing her hand over his. The dragons watch the two Stark cousins, not bothering to avert their eyes. “We are all competent riders – and the dragons know how to handle themselves.”

But the concern doesn’t fade from Robb’s face, not there and definitely not when Lyarra introduces him to Rhaegal.

Her dragon is bristling with energy when they step beyond the gates, his large green wings spread out as he bathes in the sun. Lyarra throws him a shred of meat, watching as he devours it with a snort. Grinning, Lyarra turns to Robb with a brilliant smile. “Isn’t he amazing?”

“He’s a dragon,” Robb croaks, amazement spreading across his features. Amazement, and fear. “I’ve never seen anything like him.”

“Wait until you see him fly,” Lyarra murmurs, brushing her hand over his snout. She is rewarded with a sound of contentment, Rhaegal pushing his head further into Lyarra’s hand. “He is unlike anything you have ever seen.”

“My Lady.”

Lyarra turns around at the sound of Jeor Mormont's voice. He is eying the dragons with hesitance, a fear that most should have.

“I am no lady, Lord Commander,” Lyarra says, brushing off her leather breeches. She is dressed for winter, draped in a fur-trimmed jerkin and thick leathers. When dressing for her dragon, Lyarra feels most free. Away from the corsets that would seek to bind her, and the long skirts, she is able to fly. But even with the liberation of a dragon, Lyarra can see the way the men look at her.

The men of the Night’s Watch are ravenous for women such as her and they make no secret of it. Staring at her as if she were as naked as the day she was born, Lyarra finds herself being eyed off by rapists, murderers, and thieves.

“Any granddaughter of Rickard Stark is a lady to me,” Jeor says, motioning to the keep. “Maester Aemon would like to see you.”

Lyarra nods, looking back over her shoulder to where Robb stands. He is facing off with Rhaegal, who seems more than happy in his presence. Robb, not so much.

“You’ll be safe with him, your grace,” Lyarra calls back. “Just don’t touch him. Only I can do that.”

Making her way inside, Lyarra can hear the Lord Commanders heavy steps behind her. He is a large man, broader than his son and fatter too.

“I knew your grandfather quite well,” He says as they walk. “Lyanna was his favourite and gods, how you look like her.”

“You knew my mother then, as well?”

“I knew them all, my lady,” Jeor says. “Lyanna was a wild thing, tempestuous and bold. You share her look, but there is more caution in your eyes than there ever was in hers.”

“Caution taught.” Lyarra turned to face the Lord Commander. “You knew my Uncle as well, then. Both at Winterfell and here at the wall.”

“Of course, my lady.”

“Then you must know that Benjen Stark wouldn’t just disappear,” Lyarra says, stopping at the door. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

Jeor Mormont is grim as he says, “Rangers go missing all the time, my lady.”

“They do,” Lyarra agrees, “but what happens if he did go missing, Lord Commander? The dead rule beyond the wall, you said so yourself.”

“Aye, they do.”

“What if he is one of them?” Lyarra asks, her fists clenching at her side. “What then?”

“Then he is one of them,” Jeor says, opening the door, “and we must kill him.”

Lyarra lets out a choked sound before Jeor places a hand on her shoulder. Unfastening his sword, he offers it to her. “You do not have a Valyrian blade on you. If you go beyond the wall, you shall need one.”

Lyarra looks down at the bear hilt, her fingers dusting over the blade. “I couldn’t take it.”

“My sister would ring my head if she knew I let her ward go beyond the wall unprotected.” Jeor smiles, pressing the sword into her hands. “Take it. It shall serve you well against the dead.”

Maester Aemon welcomes her with a smile, his hands coming to reach for her face once more. A large man sits beside him, chubby and red faced; the same she had seen staring at her in the courtyard.

“Beautiful,” Maester Aemon says as he traces the curves of her face. “And your eyes? Are they the grey of your mother’s house, or…”

“The indigo of my fathers,” Lyarra explains, sitting down across from him. She eyes the chubby man, before she outstretches her hand. “Lyarra Snow.”

The man shoots up, his large stomach banging the table and jolting the peace of the documents. His cheeks go up in flames before he wraps his hand in hers. “Samwell Tarly.”

“Tarly,” Lyarra echoes. “A noble House.”

“Yes, my lady.” Lyarra raises her eyes at Samwell. “Ugh, I mean, you’re not a lady, are you? A bastard, well, a base born woman.”

Lyarra glances to Maester Aemon, who wears ambivalence like Samwell wore embarrassment.

“You wanted to see me, Maester Aemon?” Lyarra asks, trying to distract from Samwell’s humiliation.

“Yes, yes,” He says, beckoning for Samwell to bring forward the letters. “When your father was alive, we corresponded often. He wrote to me of prophecies and his dreams, but there was one story Rhaegar was focused on.”

Lyarra handles one of the letters, her eyes finding the neat cursive of Rhaegar Targaryen. Tracing over the letters, Lyarra feels her stomach twist at the thought of her father holding this parchment in a time long gone.  

“The Prince that was promised,” Maester Aemon says. “It was his favourite prophecy. When Rhaegar was a young boy, he thought he was the Prince the prophecy spoke of. But he was not born beneath a bleeding star, nor was his song that of ice and fire. When his wife, Elia of House Martell, gave birth to their son, Rhaegar was convinced he was the Prince that was promised. The boy was born beneath a bleeding star, after all – but still, his song was not that of ice and fire.”

Lyarra swallows deeply as he continues. “Rhaegar had written to me after the birth of Aegon and told me that his wife could no longer have children. The birth had been too hard on Elia’s body, you see. And so despite her best efforts, Princess Elia could not give Rhaegar the third child he so needed.”

“Why did he need a third child?”

“The dragon must have three heads,” Maester Aemon says. “It is known. Like Aegon, Rhaenys and Visenya, the Prince that was promised must be of three.”

“So that is why he took my mother?” Lyarra asks. “He needed a third whelp to enable his delusions?”

Anger flares in her chest at the thought. Her mother, barely a girl of six and ten, used for her blood. Rhaegar Targaryen was a man grown with a wife of his own and children to care for. Instead of thinking about them, he swept a northern girl away to a Southron tower, lavished her with affection and put a babe in her belly. And then he died.  

“Rhaegar was not a cruel man, my sweet,” Maester Aemon explains. “And I am sure he loved your mother. He named her Queen of love and beauty, after all.”

“And then he left her to rot in the Tower of Joy.”

“That,” Aemon says, his voice hard, “was not his choice.”

Lyarra stands, her hands flat on the table. “I am sure you mean no harm, Maester Aemon, but I have to ready for the flight. I don’t wish to speak of Rhaegar Targaryen, or my mother, for that matter. The dead are dead – let them rest.”

Turning on her heel, Maester Aemon calls out, “The Prince that was promised was thought to be a boy, Lyarra. But the original prophecy was in Valyrian. Translated, there is no gender in Valyrian. What fools we were, who thought ourselves so wise! The error crept in from the translation. Dragons are neither male nor female, but now one and now the other, as changeable as flame. The language misled us all for a thousand years.”

Lyarra turns back to stare at him. “What are you saying?”

“You were born in a tower defended by Arthur Dayne, wielding dawn,” Maester Aemon says. “Do you know the legend of the Dayne’s great sword?”

“No.”

“It was created from the heart of a falling star,” Maester Aemon says. “From all the tales we’ve heard, Arthur Dayne killed a number of men on the day Eddard Stark came to save his sister. And so you were born beneath a bleeding star, the princess who was promised.”

Lyarra stills, her eyes widening. “What?”

“Born to ice and fire,” Maester Aemon says, “and beneath a bleeding star. You are the one, Lyarra. The dragons prove it.”

Lyarra hears a screech outside, as her heart pounds in her ears. To be what they said she was… it made _no_ sense. She is but a bastard, defined by her surname and all she is not. _But I thought myself a Snow when I was really a dragon,_ she thinks. _I have been wrong before._

“I don’t deal in prophecies,” Lyarra says, remembering the words of her Aunt, “nor fate. So thank you for the lesson, Maester Aemon, but I need not have anymore.”

“That is so much fire in you.” Maester Aemon chuckles. “It is almost like I am speaking to one of my sisters. You are a dragon through and through; what a tragedy it was that so many thought you a bastard.”

“But that is what I am, Maester Aemon,” Lyarra says, opening the door. “A Snow of the North. Nothing more, nothing less.”

"You demean yourself out of habit," Maester Aemon observes. "I wonder how fierce you shall be when you realise just what you are, Lyarra. Not a Snow, but a  _dragon_. A dragon that will deliver this world from the evil that awaits us." 

Lyarra steps forward, feeling a surge of pity for the old Maester. "Have you always been surrounded by delusion, Maester Aemon? Is that why Rhaegar fell at the Trident? Because he was too blinded by words from witches to see his own reality?" Lyarra shakes her head. "This prophecy of yours has led to nothing but death. Rhaegar Targaryen is gone, as is my mother. How many more have to die so that you can be right? Will it be me next, Maester Aemon? Or mayhaps I should expect my kin to fall in my place." 

Maester Aemon grins. "I am not a seer, my sweet. I may believe in prophecies and you may curse me as a fool, but know this: when the winds blow cold and you face the dead, it shall be the blood of others that keeps you alive. Your mother, your father, your uncle all gave their lives to keep you safe. When the time comes, you shall do the same - no matter the cost." 

"You don't need a prophecy to tell you that, Maester Aemon." Lyarra moves to leave. "I am a wolf of Winterfell as much as I am a dragon of Valyria. I will fight until the fighting is done if it means those I love are safe." 

Maester Aemon grins, showing his rotting teeth. "Keep your sword close to you, sweet one. When the Long Night comes, your sword shall be the first to go." 

Lyarra tightens her hand on Longclaw. "Don't worry, Maester Aemon - I shall keep it close." 

* * *

The taste of moon tea is still on her lips as she crosses the courtyard.

Lyarra had the sense to bring some before she departed Dorne. As a woman, it was a necessity. Since her days in the Westerlands with Robb, she had become used to consuming it. When she had time in Dorne, she was taught how to brew it too. Arianne had been the one to give her the book, a smile on her lips and a glint in her eye.

“ _A babe is a tragedy in normal times,”_ Arianne jested. “ _A babe in war is a disaster.”_

Robb watches her as she slips on her gloves, Ghost at her ankles. He has been hesitant to let her leave his sight, his red eyes watching her every move. With him around, she feels safer – as she would with a blade strapped to her hip.

“The Lord Commander gave you Longclaw,” Robb observes.

“Temporarily,” Lyarra explains. “I think he’s afraid of Lady Mormont finding out that he let me go beyond the wall.”

“Maege would be sure to cuff him,” Robb says with a warm smile. “It’s a fine blade. You shall be safe.”

It’s a lie if ever she has heard one. She can hear the doubt in Robb’s voice, the hesitance in his gate. Lyarra glances around, trying to spot the watching eyes.

“Come here,” Lyarra says, pulling him into an alcove and pressing her lips against his. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulls him as close as she can manage, savouring his taste.

The sound of a shout breaks them apart. Robb leans his forehead against hers, his lips bringing with them winter and warmth.

“I love you,” He whispers, his hand coming to cup her cheek. “Do you understand? I _love_ you.”

“I shall be safe,” Lyarra murmurs, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips once more. “I have Longclaw, after all. And Rhaegal.”

“Come back to me,” Robb pleads. “Promise me, Lya, you must come back to me.”

“I promise.”

As she walks away, the acidity of her lie festers in her mouth. She promised only what the Stranger could; and they both knew how dangerous it was to taunt the Stranger.

Rounding on Rhaegal, Lyarra glances to where Dany sits atop Drogon – and Aegon atop Viserion.

“Ready?” She calls, swinging her thigh over Rhaegal’s neck. Pulling down her hood and wrapping her scarf tightly around her neck, she waits for the approval.

Dany nods, and they are flying. Castle Black disappears, along with Robb and talk of prophecies. The wall is a fantastic thing from the sky, seemingly as long as the earth itself. Lyarra feels the thrum of Rhaegal’s excitement at the sight before him while she feels the chill at the cold.

Even though he has a fire within, Rhaegal feels the cold better than anything else. As they climb the sky, Lyarra can feel it too – the ice in her veins spreading far and wide as it claims her. It feels different from the ice of past winters. Somehow, it’s more insidious; colder than anything she has ever felt.

Mayhaps it is because she knows who she is now; more aware of the fire that burns within. Or mayhaps it is because this winter does not just bring snow and ice, but dead and darkness.

With every minute passed, it becomes harder to see the others. Rhaegal is the fastest of his siblings and so Lyarra is sure she is ahead of the rest, looking down at the leagues of white below. She can see forests and iced-over lakes, a land so like her own, and yet so different. It is strange to see beyond the wall; a fulfillment of her wishes as a child.

Inhaling deeply, Lyarra narrows her eyes beyond the winter winds, scouring the lands for any sight of the dead. Her mind conjures images of grotesque corpses, something she would find in a crypt. But there is no sight of them, this army that Robb himself has claimed to have seen.

Looking around, Lyarra tries to spot the others. As the gales whip against her, and the snow flies past her eyes, it becomes harder to distinguish cloud from the sky.  She can feel Rhaegal’s uncertainty, his fear pulse through her. Even through his eyes, better suited to see through the snows, she struggles to find them.

A screech sounds through the air, forcing Lyarra to whip Rhaegal around. Panic floods Rhaegal at the sound of one of his siblings in distress but he waits for her command. _Down_ , she thinks, gripping onto the ridges of his neck and feeling her stomach drop at the descent.

The air around them clears of the snow and finally, she is able to see clearly. A gasp of horror escapes her at the sight below, of the dead marching. Rhaegal circles around, as Lyarra searches the skies for her kin. She can see Drogon hovering at this angle before he disappears in the clouds once more, but Viserion is nowhere to be seen.

 _Forward,_ she commands, steading herself as Rhaegal does as she asks. The army is huge, led by the Others on horseback. It would look like a normal battlement, if not for the skeletons that walk. Lyarra wants to retch at the sight, but there is something about them that consumes her. _Is Benjen there,_ she wonders, _has he become one of them?_

As she flies, she notices the army beginning to thin as they reach the end. It’s then she finally finds Viserion, descending to a patch of snow leagues away from the end where one or two dead straggles.

“The fucking cunt,” Lyarra rages, fury her friend as it flows through her. Her anger is as visceral as the winter winds, blinding her. _Down we go,_ she thinks, _all because Aegon wants to be a hero._

Lyarra knows she cannot let him die down there, too emboldened by his own stupidity. Aegon may be good in the yard, but he had never fought in a real battle – let alone fought the dead. And for all she may wish to kill him in this moment, she knows she cannot let him die.

Rhaegal descends quickly, stirring up snow as he circles his brother.

“Get back on Viserion!” She shouts, her voice carrying through the wind. Aegon ignores her; instead stepping forward to face the dead. They have already noticed him – running at him with their gurgles screams. “Seven hells,” She snaps, knowing she cannot command fire with Aegon so close.

Jumping off Rhaegal’s back, Lyarra races forward – watching as her brother begins to fight them. But his blade is not Valyrian steel and so they do not fall as they would have once before death claimed them and made them into soldiers of his own. Grasping the hilt of the sword loaned to her by House Mormont, Lyarra wastes no time in cutting down the beasts.

One slams into her side, it’s nails cutting through the leather of her jerking before she puts her blade through its heart. It slumps forward, blood spilling onto the snow before she moves onto the next. She is shocked at the sight of the scarlet liquid staining the snow, unprepared for _blood_.

Lyarra had been a fool to think that the dead would be _dead_. The corpses she encounters still have their flesh, their eyes, their tongues. They stool look human for all they are not. She can tell they are dead, their skins having turned waxy and blue beneath the harsh winter sun. Their eyes, too, are changed; glowing a vibrant blue that seems too similar to Robb’s Tully gaze.

She knows she can’t spend too much time staring at them and so she launches herself into killing the others. There is a wildling risen that fights her with a sharpened bear tooth, jamming the weapon into her jerkin over and over again. Lyarra grunts at the sharp end, but it isn’t strong enough to pierce her jerkin.

Cutting through the wildlings arm, a strangled scream escapes it as the Valyrian steel works what little magic can be found in this graveyard she has stumbled into. She takes its head next, watching in horror as the limbs continue to twist before finally ceasing movement.

Aegon lets out a cry from where he stands, battling a near-skeletal corpse. The rotting teeth of the skull clamps down on the Prince's arm, tearing at the leather of his jerkin and nearly biting through his flesh. Lyarra lets out a shout as she cuts through the skeleton, watching as the walking dead comes apart with one simple move.  

When it is done, and there are corpses surrounding them, Lyarra snatches Aegon by the hair and pulls him back to his dragon, ignoring his cries of pain.

Pulling him up, Lyarra slams him against the back of Rhaegal – her eyes blazing with fury. “You fucking idiot. Do you have a death wish?”

“I needed to see them,” Aegon sputters out. “I needed to know if it was true.”

“You could have seen them from the air, you dim-witted cunt,” Lyarra snaps, whacking him with an open palm. “Gods, you are lucky I saw you, otherwise you would have joined them. If I had my back turned, I would have missed it. Next time you won't be so lucky." Lyarra's words are biting, but they're not as harsh as the cold that threatens to swallow them up. "Now get back on your fucking dragon before I feed you to mine.”

Shoving him towards Viserion, Lyarra turns back to her dragon – only to be hit by an arrow. It splits through her jerkin and impales her shoulder, forcing a shout of shock to escape her lips.

“Lya!” Aegon cries. She can hear the sound of rushing feet on the snow, the screams of the dead once again meeting her ears.

Rhaegal roars, no longer needing her command to breathe fire on those that come before him. Claiming whatever sense she has left, Lyarra pulls herself up on his back – before she feels another arrow hit her in the same spot. Screaming, Lyarra bites down on her lip as she begs Rhaegal fly. “Dracarys,” She says, remembering what the Lord Commander said of the dead.

Spreading his wings far and wide, Rhaegal lifts from the earth and plunges into the sky, fire raining down beneath him as the dead are turned to ash. _Not for long,_ Lyarra thinks through her pain.

She doesn’t know how long it takes before they are back behind the wall, her pain too overwhelming. The dead had targeted her poor arm, the one damaged in the siege of Meereen. Every muscle seems to remember the pain from her original injury, flaring through her body like a separate pulse.

When Rhaegal finally lands outside the gates of Castle Black, Lyarra slumps forward – arrows in her back and bloodied sword in hand.

The world explodes around her, a flurry of voices meeting her ears.

“Lyarra!”

“What happened?”

“She’s been shot!”

Robb pulls her from the back of Rhaegal, worrying not for his own safety around the giant beast she had claimed. “Seven hells,” He curses, his expression tormented by his concern. “What happened?”

Lyarra blinks through the pain, watching as Drogon and Viserion land.

“Aegon landed,” Lyarra croaks, letting out a yelp of pain as Robb examines the arrows. “He wanted to see the dead. But he didn’t have a Valyrian blade. He would have died if I hadn’t…”

“He was a fool,” Dany says from her side, her tone venomous. The Queen looks like fury come to life, her violet eyes sparkling like a storm. “Come, we must get you inside. She needs to be seen by Maester Aemon.”

The pain reaches its peak, blinding her. The last thing she sees is Robb approaching her brother, before his fist whips back and hits the dragon Prince square in the face.  

And then, there is darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... 101 comments on the last chapter? 
> 
> Well, fuck me dead I did NOT expect such a huge response! We also have 1260 kudos! It's just unbelievable to me that this story is getting the response it is! I'm truly really appreciative and just thankful for each and every comment I get!
> 
> A lot of you were barracking for Oberyn in the last chapter, so I'm unsure how you will take Robb. I hope the reunion is what you hoped for. I hope you also enjoyed the reunion with Ghost (it was a favourite of mine to write). Also just to give a little shoutout to the review written by Child_of_the_TARDIS on my last chapter. Bang on. I agree with (mostly) everything you said. 
> 
> Now moving on to other things: Aemon is alive! So you see I'm fucking a lot with canon now but I guess I totally can because, ya know, fanfic. 
> 
> There are some important foreshadowing moments in this chapter but it's definitely nowhere NEAR as packed as the next one. I'm telling you that I think chapter 9 is my favourite so far. It has drama, it has lemons, it has straight up bloodshed. It's a good one. I think it's the biggest we've seen Lyarra come into her own and I'm SO excited for you to read it. 
> 
> Some of you may be wondering about Alysanne and Roslin, and all the other Starks alive. You're probably wanting updates. Well... you only have to wait until the next chapter to get your update! We will have one and a half more chapters at the Wall btw before we go back to Dorne. 
> 
> Also, as a bit of a tidbit, I have finally mapped out the plot for the remaining chapters which means I am solid on the ending now. This fic will most likely have a max of 20 chapters including the epilogue. The epilogue will be a full circle moment. 
> 
> In all seriousness though, I wanted to give credit to a story that actually inspired this fic. Go check out Visenya by TheEagleGirl for me. A lot of this chapter was inspired by her fic. It's a great one and the only fem!Jon fic I have read, other than this one of course. 
> 
> Now onto song recs for this chapter: 
> 
> Hesitate by Jonas Brothers (lol at the Jo Bros but their new album is actually really good and this song is a great Robb/Lya anthem).  
> The Mighty Rio Grande by This Will Destroy You  
> Bridge over troubled water by Simon and Garfunkel  
> Forgotten Love by Aurora


	9. Salt and Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I was a foolish willful girl, playing at the game of thrones like a drunkard rolling dice." 
> 
> \--- Arianne Martell

She wakes to flames razing her body.

Robb sits by her side, Ghost on the bed, and Daenerys hovering close by. It is quite a sight to see, but no amount of blinking can will it away. Lyarra thinks it a dream at first for this man before her could not be real. Robb was gone; hidden behind the walls of Winterfell and by the crown he wore.

Yet here he sat, worry etched into his face and his hands in hers.

“Gods be good,” He says, leaning forward and capturing her lips with his. A noise of surprise escapes the Queen, who watches on with wide eyes. Breaking apart, his hand comes to cup her cheeks – torture in his Tully eyes. “How could you do that to me?”

Her voice is rough when she croaks, “I didn’t break my promise. I came back.”

Tears escape him, and gone is the King he has become. “Yes,” He weeps, “yes you did.”

Maester Aemon tells her it will take weeks for her shoulder to heal.

“Weeks we do not have,” Daenerys says, her violet eyes holding a world of concerns.

“It matters not how much time she needs,” Robb argues, his crown showing then. In his moments of anger, the man he has become takes over his body. He is the King in the North; the Warden their father once was. _His Lords face,_ Lyarra once teased her father, smoothing out the worry and sadness that seemed to sneak into his skin. “She’s injured. Climbing on the back of a dragon won’t help her.”

Daenerys stares into the snowstorm brewing outside. “Don’t fret, young wolf, we won’t be leaving for some time. Lyarra isn’t the only one that needs to recover.”

“What?”

Daenerys doesn’t answer her confusion, nor does Robb.

“Tell me,” Lyarra demands, feeling all the more lost.

Maester Aemon is the one to tell her. “Aegon is injured. The King in the North saw to that.”

“Aye, I did,” Robb bites back, little regard for the elderly Maesters contempt. “He endangered the life of the woman I love, Maester Aemon. He is lucky to be breathing.”  

“And you are lucky he did not turn his dragon on you,” Maester Aemon snaps back. The man may be blind and teetering on the edge of death, but he is still a dragon. Age may have sought to take him, but his fire burned bright.

Daenerys surprises them all when she ends the argument. “If Aegon hadn’t been so stupid, he wouldn’t have risked two of my dragons. The King in the North is right, Uncle – Aegon is lucky to be alive.”

Maester Aemon grumbles beneath his breath before he moves forward to examine her. At his side is Samwell Tarly, his cheeks redder than Ghost’s eyes, and his hands prodding at her shoulder. They may have removed the arrows, but her arm is still incapacitated – throbbing with a pain it knows too well. It reminds her of Meereen; of the salt and smoke that hung in the air that day she rode Rhaegal for the first time.

“Rest,” Maester Aemon prescribes. “Alone, preferably.”

Robb doesn’t bother to listen to the old Maester. When they all leave, he remains steadfast at her side. He waits but a moment before his lips claimed hers once more _._ Her body inflames with the promise of what his kiss means, her body remembering the night shared just hours before.

When one hand goes to the strings of his tunic, Robb stops her in her tracks. “Not tonight, Lya. Maester Aemon may not like me, but I’m not foolish enough to ignore his advice.”

But her lips throb, as does her core. She wants him to take her in every way he can, his lips on hers and his fingers rooted deeply inside her. She wants to feel him filling her to the hilt. She wants to watch as his face scrunches into that look she so loves. And when it comes to an end, she wants to watch Robb reach that paradise he seeks with a shout of her name and a kiss to her neck.

It matters not what she wants, or says. Robb won’t budge. “No,” He says, quieter this time when she tries to kiss him again. “I won’t risk you.”

Lyarra thinks back to a time when he had. She pushes the thought of Casterly Rock and chains away from the front of her mind and into that cage she keeps horrible things. She doesn’t want to remember the resentment, or the pain, not when Robb is before her for the first time in years. _Don’t waste this._

“Sit, then,” Lyarra says, patting the side of her bed and waiting for him to come to her. He eyes the bed warily, before climbing in – taking off his boots and wrapping her cautiously in his arms. Ghost watches them both, his red eyes wearing a sort of calm he has always lacked. She wants to drown in his gaze, in this calm she had so missed. But she can’t – not when blue eyes come to mind.

Her voice is cold when she says, “They were terrifying.”

“I know,” Robb murmurs into her hair. “I know.”

And he does.

He always has.

Lyarra closes her eyes, ignoring the stinging in her arm and clutching at him with her good hand. “They swarmed us when Aegon landed. Gods, Robb, it was… terrible.”

“The end of the world,” Robb whispers, tightening his hold on her. “They are death, Lya. They are worse than all the rest – and they are coming South.”

Lyarra shuts her eyes tight, wishing away the sight of them. But for all she may wish, she can not rid her mind of their vivid blue eyes, nor can she rid herself of the image of Robb’s Tully blue replaced with theirs.

“I could kill him for what he did,” Robb snaps, his anger larger than her fears. “We told him to keep to the air. We told him to avoid them.”

“He’s a fool,” Lyarra dismisses, “but we should have expected it. Aegon has this deluded fantasy that he’s some sort of saviour.”

_Born to ice and fire, and beneath a bleeding star._

“That boy couldn’t save a fish from drowning,” Robb snarls. “He’s no saviour.”

_You are the one, Lyarra. The dragons prove it._

“Robb…” Lyarra starts, wanting to tell him everything. She wants to tell him about Maester Aemon's riddles, about the prophecy she was born to fulfill. But when he looks at her with those Tully eyes, eyes she has so missed, she knows she cannot tell him this. A prophecy of a princess promised long ago is not something that she can share with him. It would make her too different, too foreign from the girl he once loved. And gods, she is already clinging onto him with the little strength she has left. “You have not mentioned Alysanne.”

Robb’s face transforms into that of a stranger. The man before her is no longer hers; he is Alysanne’s, and Alysanne’s only. It causes jealousy to curl within Lyarra’s gut, feral and demanding. She knows it’s strange to be jealous of a babe, but never before had she competed for Robb’s attention. _He was always mine and now he belongs to someone else._

But then the joy at the mention of her name drips away, like rain on a glass plane. “I thought you wouldn’t want to hear about her.”

In all their time together, as children and as lovers, she has never felt so far from him. They had always been joined together, even when she was fostered at Bear Island and he with the Karstarks. But now, they are two different people – ruined by wars they never wished to fight in. Now, Robb is a father and Lyarra is a dragon, and somehow what once bound them together is pulling them apart.

It is a truth Lyarra doesn’t want to accept. There is a chasm between them where there was once understanding, and it baffles her. When did they become strangers, she wants to ask, when did time change them? But there are no answers to be found between them, and as she watches Robb grow colder, she realises with a start that she doesn’t want to let him go. She can’t, not after all this time. She has grieved for him, bled for him, _killed_ for him. She wouldn’t let a babe change that now.

Meeting his eyes, Lyarra borrows a false smile and a lie from her pocket, like all women, are forced to do. “Of course I want to hear about her, Robb. She is yours, after all.”

 _She is Roslin's too,_ a voice whispers, terrible and cruel. It’s the same voice that asks her an equally horrifying question, _will you treat her as Catelyn treated you?_ Lyarra pushes that thought out of her mind as fast as she can, locking it away in a cage and ignoring the repercussions.

Robb is hesitant at first, but with a coaxing smile, he opens up.

“She looks like Sansa,” He admits, “and she takes after her too. Sweet, gentle… we call her Annie.”

“I imagined her like Roslin,” Lyarra admits, although she barely knows what the Frey looks like.

A shadow falls on Robb’s face. “I didn’t think you would want to speak of her either.”

“She is your wife,” Lyarra says. “Your Queen.”

A choked noise escapes him.

“Don’t deny it,” Lyarra says. “You swore an oath before the Old Gods, Robb.”

He sends her a withering look. “You think I married Roslin before the Old Gods?”

Of course he had. Lyarra has imagined it a million times: Roslin Frey draped in a coat of grey, beneath a bleeding tree and freshly fallen snow. She has imagined the iced over pools she once swam, reflecting an image of a Southron girl made Queen and a heartbroken in the south. Lyarra has thought of it many times; _too many times._

Robb lets out a sigh of disbelief. “I may have been forced to marry her, Lya, but I would never take a woman I didn’t love before the OId Gods. I married Roslin in a Sept. I took the vows of the seven.”

Somehow, it makes it more bearable. Lyarra does not follow the seven, nor will she ever. Her prayers would always be taken before the weirwoods of the North, and she imagined her marriage vows would be taken there too.

But for all it may please her, Lyarra forces out the truth she must believe, “Regardless, Roslin is still your wife. What is she like?”

Robb is more hesitant to speak about his wife than he is about his daughter. For a few moments, Lyarra thinks he will remain silent, until he says, “She is a good mother.”

Lyarra expects more. “And?”

“She is kind,” Robb bites out. “And quiet.”

Lyarra feels a pang of sympathy for the woman she thinks a usurper. “You don’t know her.”

“I don’t want to.”

Closing her eyes, Lyarra realises they’re not the only victims in this war. Roslin has been traded just as she; just as every woman before her.

Robb’s arms tighten around her, his lips at her ear. “You know I don’t want her, Lya. It’s always you. It’s always been you.”

“But you are married now,” Lyarra murmurs, meeting his eyes, “and I am a dragon.”

Robb cups her cheek, his eyes holding a thousand fires. “But I was yours before I was hers, and you were mine before you were his.”

Lyarra feels his heart hammering against her hand, his desperation for her love clawing at her skin. She knows that for all she may feel sorry for his lady wife, her love for Robb would always win out.

So she smiles, presses a kiss to his palm, and says, “I am still yours, and you are still mine.”

The words taste like ash in her mouth and outside, she can hear the howling of a wolf.

Robb smiles and extracts himself out of their bed. “I have a gift for you.”

“A gift?” Lyarra props herself up as well as she can, her injuries proving too painful to sit up straight.

“Stay there,” Robb commands, going to rummage in the trunk by the end of the bed. Standing, he holds a sword in his hands, sheathed in a leather case embroidered with Tyrell roses. Lyarra recognises it instantly, and her face crumbles. “Lord Commander Mormont gave you his sword to go beyond the wall and while it is a fine blade, you deserve your own weapon.”

She remembers the name she had so wistfully given the blade Renly had gifted her. _Storm,_ she thinks, reaching out to claim it. She hasn’t seen it since that day on the battlefield in the Westerlands.

“You kept it?” Lyarra asks. “I thought they would have destroyed it.”

Robb wipes away her tears as he pulls her to his chest. “I could never let them destroy something you loved.”

Lyarra decides then that for all the lies and doubts, she loves him just as strongly as she did years prior; and she knows he feels the same.  

* * *

Stannis Baratheon rides in on a black steed with anger at his heels.

Lyarra is still in bed when the door is slammed open. Dany pulls her out of her furs, commanding, “You must get up. Baratheon is coming.”

“What?” Lya asks, confused. “Where’s Robb?”

“He’s ridden to meet him.” Dany throws her leathers towards the bed. “I’m going on Drogon. Rhaegal will not move unless you ride him.”

“But Dany…” Lya croaks. “I can barely walk.”

Dany regards her with impatience. “Then you must crawl.”

Lyarra dresses quickly, blinking through her pain as she stumbles down the stairs. The courtyard is full of crows who watch her with greedy gazes. Samwell Tarly is at her side in an instant, guiding her past the gates to where her family waits. Rhaegal is the only dragon on the ground, his copper eyes following her with impatience. It has been days since he last saw her in the flesh, although she is sure he has felt her in his mind.

Lyarra feels the comfort she usually does in his presence, the warm glow of his fire humming over her. She knows she will never be cold while Rhaegal is at her side; and despite her pain, she manages a smile.

“Don’t be so grim, Rhae,” Lyarra murmurs, gritting her teeth as she stands before him. The Night’s Watch had run out of milk of the poppy years prior and so she must endure her pain, unbearable though it might be. “A few arrows wouldn’t take me down.”

Rhaegal regards her with annoyance, huffing out steam through his nostrils. She knows she has kept him waiting. Every moment spent in bed, she has felt his impatience. Glancing over her shoulder, Lyarra winces at Samwell. “How far away are they?”

“A few leagues.” Sam eyes Rhaegal warily. “My lady, I don’t think you should ride him. Your arm is still damaged.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Lyarra hisses, asking Rhaegal to lean down. Using her good hand, she manages to climb onto him – doing her very best to ignore the pain. “They’re already waiting.”

In the air, Lyarra does her very best to stay awake. The pain is so much that she has to slip into Rhaegal’s mind, watching as Castle Black fades away and the Gift replaces it.

When she finally spots the dragons of her family, Rhaegal descends – landing with an ease unknown to the others. Despite being the smallest of his siblings, Rhaegal was the fastest of them all. And with speed, comes grace.

Lyarra slumps against his neck as he lands, coming back to herself with a shudder. Warm hands come to her back, pulling her off the dragon and placing her in even warmer arms.

“I told you she was not fit to be woken,” Robb snaps, his gloved hands coming to her face. “Lya?”

Lyarra basks in the sound of his voice before she opens her eyes. Tears escape her without her consent, her pain controlling her now. Robb looks down at her with an ocean of worry swirling in his eyes, his gaze going from her lips to her shoulder.

“I’m fine,” She grits out. “Let me down.”

Robb sets her on her feet, his hand coming to steady her as her legs tremble. Ghost is at her side in a second, nudging her hand and yipping at her feet. She gives her wolf a small smile, trying to reassure him as she reassured Rhaegal. But it seems her reassurance is needed most by the man at her side, who watches her with a wary gaze.

When she is finally settled, she spots Aegon standing by Viserion. His face is swollen and coloured purple, but his eyes are still as dazzling as ever. They brighten at the sight of her, his feet moving before anyone could stop him.

“Lya…” Aegon begins before Robb stands in his path.

“Touch her, and I shall beat you again,” Robb hisses, his hand tightening on Aegon’s forearm. Grey Wind stands at the Kings side, Ghost along with him. Both growl at the dragon prince. The Blackfish is close as well and even though he holds disdain for the bastard his niece hates, he too rests his palm on the pommel of his sword.

“Leave her be, Aegon,” Dany agrees, her eyes on the party that approaches. “We don’t have time for this.”

Stannis Baratheon looks nothing like his brother. Where Robert was fat and broad, Stannis is gaunt and lithe. Hunger seems to have robbed him of whatever life he once had, his skin now sunken and his limbs as thin as can be. His hair has fallen out over time, leaving a sullen look to set into his skin. But he still has the eyes Joffrey and his siblings never had, blue as the oceans that lick at Storm’s End.

Beneath the guard of those Baratheon eyes, Lyarra can see the shock that comes at the sight of dragons. The man at his side doesn’t hide it as well as his King, letting out a string of curses befitting the alleys of Flea Bottom. In his eyes, Lyarra can see the horror she has grown used to finding, a horror she thinks right.

There is no horror to be found in the eyes of the woman with them. She is dressed in red and wears her beauty like a blade. Lyarra knows this is the woman Robb had mentioned, the priestess who burns her enemies. _It is ironic_ , Lyarra thinks, _that a storm made King would trust a fire follower so easily._

“Stannis Baratheon,” Daenerys says, her eyes narrowing. “Lord of Storm’s End. The man that seeks to claim my throne.”

“He is the true King,” The man at his side says. He too has been affected by hunger. _They look days from death,_ she thinks, her stomach churning at the thought while she tries to place his name. Ser Davos Seaworth _,_ she recalls. Robb had mentioned him once or twice. _The Onion Knight._ “And you would treat him as such.”

Daenerys stares at Ser Davos, her hand coming to rest on Drogon’s neck. The largest of her dragons lets out a snarl, steam rising in his agitation. “I see no King before me. I see a traitor, a smuggler and a priestess better suited for the east. I see no crown or army, for that matter.”

“Our forces remain in the Gift,” Stannis says, “and yours in Dorne, I hear. A flock of bought slaves and savages.”

“An army.” Daenerys smiles thinly. “We have thousands of men. How many do you have, Lord Stannis?”

“Our forces have been depleted,” Stannis acknowledges. “The Blackwater damaged my cause, as has winter.”

 _It is autumn,_ she wants to say.

“Mayhaps it was the Gods sending you a message, one I shall be happy to repeat.” Daenerys moves from Drogons side, standing fiercely by Aegon. They look as if they belong in the snow, silver-haired and fair skin. Lyarra tightens her hold on Robb, desperate to remain where she belongs. “Abandon the throne and pledge allegiance to the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Pledge your armies to mine, and I shall reward you handsomely. I have no intention of committing the same mistakes as my brother, or father before him. Under my rule, peace shall be returned to all Seven Kingdoms. I shall even have you on my small council if you so wish.”

Stannis bristles at the offer. “You say you’re the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, but I have heard many whispers about you, Daenerys Targaryen. Khaleesi of the Dothraki turned Queen of Meereen. And now you say you are Queen of these Kingdoms. But I see a man by your side that calls himself Aegon Targaryen. The son of Rhaegar, and Elia of House Martell. If I am to give up my claim and allow House Targaryen to return, surely I would be following the rightful heir of Prince Rhaegar?”

Daenerys stiffens, her nostrils flaring at the insinuation.

“The Queen and I are to be married,” Aegon explains with a queer smile. It’s an odd sight to see on such a badly beaten face. “We shall rule together.”

“Only one can sit upon the Iron Throne,” The red woman states, her smile twisting beautifully. “The Lord of Light grants power and power is not shared. Robert Baratheon learned as much, as did the false King Joffrey of House Lannister.  Even your wolf King knows his crown is a wartime fancy.”

“The North will remain independent,” Robb says, “regardless of who wins the Iron Throne.”

Daenerys glances at Robb, her eyes cold. “It’s a matter to be resolved when peace comes.”

Stannis chuckles. “You say you are the rightful Queen but you could not even get a Stark on side?”

“She has the support of House Stark,” Lyarra snaps, drawing the eyes of the men before her. Even Stannis’ flag bearers watch her with interest, this bastard turned dragon. “You do not.”

Stannis narrows his eyes. “Lyarra Snow. I didn’t think my brother's whore would be this far North.”

Robb tightens his hold on her. “Choose your words wisely, Stannis. I may have honoured the friendship you held with my father but I shall not stand here while you insult my kin.”

“She’s not your kin, though, is she?” The red woman asks. “A daughter of House Targaryen and House Stark; a Princess of ice and fire.”

“A bastard,” Lyarra snaps back. “My parents were not married.”

“The Lord of Light cares little for such things,” The red woman says. "You should know that by now, Princess.”

Lyarra narrows her eyes at the priestess, glaring at the smug smirk that lies on her face. She wonders if such giddiness is learned in the flames, or if the red woman had stolen it from the enemies she sought to burn.

“Why have you come here, Lord Stannis?” Daenerys asks.

“I wanted to see your dragons for myself.” His eyes appraise them then, his lips thinning. “There were whispers, but I wished to be sure.”

Daenerys smiles at the sight of her children. “And now that you’re sure, what do you want?”

“I want a great many things, dragon. I want the throne. I want Cersei Lannister's head. I want justice.”

“For what?” Daenerys asks. “For Robert Baratheon? It seems odd that you would ask justice for one brother's death when they say you are responsible for the others. The Gods, the old and the new, do not smile on kinslayers. It is one of the greatest sins.”

“And what of your brother Viserys?” Stannis asks, his voice laced with poison. “I heard a great many whispers about him too before he was last in the Dothraki sea.”

Daenerys doesn’t waver. “Killed by my husband. I had nothing to do with his death.”

“Just as I had nothing to do with my brother’s death.” Stannis clears his throat, looking at the dragons as he speaks, “I came to ask for a treaty. I may be a stubborn man, but I am a man with enough sense to know I cannot survive a dragon.”

“Thank the Gods,” Robb mutters, his voice low in her ear.

Stannis continues, “I sue for peace during the great war. I will lay down my swords against you until we can defeat our common enemy. The dead are coming for us and I think squabbles over a throne can wait for now.”

“For now.” Daenerys scoffs. “If I give peace to you, what’s to say Cersei Lannister shall not ask the same? I shall commit my army to fight the dead, I shall lose thousands and then you shall commit your men to defeat me. Is that right?”

“Lady Melisandre sees the dead defeated in the flames.” Stannis glances to the red woman, who continues to stare at Lyarra. “We can only defeat them with fire. You have fire. I’d rather rule over a living land than a graveyard. I’d bet you want the same thing.”

“I want what is mine,” Daenerys snaps. “When the war ends, you shall submit to me – or face the same fate as the men who defied you.”

Surprise lights Stannis’ face, causing Lyarra to laugh. “Don’t look so surprised, Lord Stannis. We know what you do to your enemies. Men and women burned at the stake, all to please a false God.”

“The lord of light doesn’t take well to taunts and insults, Princess,” Lady Melisandre says, her voice full of contradictions. “And do not act so righteous. You may scorn the flames of your blood, but we are not so different, you and I. I burn men for my lord; you burn men for your pleasure.”

Lyarra scoffs.“I burn no men.”

“A lie.” Melisandre smiles. “But you know a great deal about lies, don’t you?”

“Enough,” Daenerys rules. “You shall have your peace, Lord Stannis. And if I hear any more stories of you burning men or women at the stake, I shall have my dragon deliver you to the same fate.”

As they turn to leave, Lady Melisandre gives Lyarra one last look. “I wish you good fortune, Princess, for the night is dark and full of terrors.”

Back at Castle Black, Lyarra allows herself to fall.

Robb is by her side, holding her protectively. “You shouldn’t have come.”

His voice is as commanding as it is cross. But not even her exhaustion nor her pain could distract her from the sight of the Lord Commander storming their way. Jeor Mormont looks like his kin in his anger, resembling the might Lyarra had seen Maege Mormont hold time and time again. Even Ser Jorah has gazed at her with the same ferocity.  

“The wildlings have attacked two of our rangers,” Lord Commander Mormont explains. “Two of our best now dead.”

Robb is steadfast at her side, his hands digging into her ribs. “What was the meaning of this?”

“They’re growing impatient,” Jeor says. “They say the dead are coming. A clan northeast of here has only just succumbed to the Night King.”

Lyarra blinks against the pain, noting the worry pinching at Robbs brow. She wants to smooth it from his skin and return his face to the glory she finds between her furs.

“We’ll talk later,” Robb says, ending the conversation.

When she is returned to her straw bed, she watches as Robb rids himself of his jerkin. His skin, a litany of scars, peeks out from the neckline of his tunic. Lyarra had expected him to return to the courtyard and meet with his men but the King doesn’t move from her chambers. Instead, he shrugs out of his shoes and climbs between her furs.

It is only when she settles in his arms that she asks, “What are you going to do about the Wildlings?”

“The Night’s Watch will be hard pressed to allow them to cross the wall,” He says.  “Lord Commander Mormont won’t be happy about it, especially now that they have killed two of his own.”

“But you will demand it of them?”

Lyarra knows the wildlings have never been this far south. The Night’s Watch had been guarding the wall from them for centuries, and now, they were being asked to allow the wildings passage. It is an absurd thought for an absurd war.

“What other choice do I have?” Robb asks, weary. “If they stay beyond the wall, they risk joining the army of the dead.”

“But it is not your choice,” Lyarra murmurs. “The men of the Night's Watch will not bow to any King or Queen. The Watch takes no part in the matter of the realm.”

“But they take part in defending the realms of men,” Robb says. “If they refuse the wildlings entry, we will be lost. The Night King will have ten men to our one and we will not be able to defeat him, even with your dragons. Lord Mormont knows this – and he shall come to agree.”

House Mormont was not easily swayed. Lyarra often thought of the bears of the North as steadfast as the Island they lived upon. While the water sought to break their home into pieces, Bear Island remained as strong as ever. It’s ruling House held the same steadiness, unable to be swayed by any winds or waters. Lyarra doubts Lord Mormont shall be swayed by Robb.

“But what if he doesn’t?” She asks. “What if he refuses entry and sends us away?”

Robb gazes to the storm brewing outside. The sun is fading outside, and with winter, the moon shall reign free. A gale force hits the window, whistling through the room and promising little hope for the moons ahead. _Summer has been kind,_ it says, _but winter shall be cruel._

“He won’t.” Robb’s eyes remain on the window, watching as the snows begin. “He can’t.”

Lyarra wants to laugh. _He can,_ she wishes to say. _He may._ For she knows how tempting it is to be ignorant, how blissful it is to believe the best in people. But the best in people is often not as good as one thinks, and even ignorance leaves you disappointed.

When she is finally well enough to attend the meetings with Lord Mormont, he says as much.

“I would have their heads,” Jeor says, his anger as ferocious as his sisters and nieces alike. “Not their company.”

“It is for the safety of the realm.” Robb stands at Lyarra’s side. Daenerys is beyond the wall again, Aegon with her. They want to see the dead one last time before they leave. “If we do not allow them refuge, we shall be fighting more corpses when the Long Night comes. Is that what you want, Lord Commander? More of these godforsaken monsters?”

“I want justice, my lady,” Lord Mormont snaps. “These wildlings have killed men of the Night’s Watch for centuries. Just two days ago they killed my brothers. Good men; men that have sought to protect this country from the hells the Gods seek to send down on us. And now you ask me to abandon my vows and allow these savages through a wall built to keep them out?”

“It was built to keep out the dead,” Lyarra reminds him. “They are not so different from us, Lord Mormont. You know that better than anyone.”  

“They are different enough,” The Lord Commander bites back, pushing away from the table. “And I shall not sit here and be lectured by a woman who is yet to meet them. If you wish me to allow them to cross the wall, it is you who shall deliver the justice I seek.”

“Lyarra has only just recovered, Lord Commander,” Robb snaps. “The Queen wants to ride out at dawn and you want to send her niece into a wildling camp?”

“Aye, I do,” Lord Mormont says. “She needs to see what we’re dealing with before she can make such demands.”

Fury takes hold of Robb, forcing him to his feet. “Do you not see how unreasonable this is, Lord Commander? We are talking about the lives of thousands.”

“I do not take orders from you, boy.” The Lord Commander stands, coming a few inches below Robb. They both breath heavily as anger infiltrates the room, making the air acidic. “I will let the wildlings through the gates the moment I have the heads of those that killed my own. If the dragon Queen wants to leave by dawn, I’d waste no time getting on with it.”

Robb slams the door on his way out, muttering beneath his breath. “The Old Bear is punishing you for speaking sense.”

“Robb…” Lyarra begins, but his anger is too far gone.

“How dare he!” Robb snarls, attracting the attention of the crows around him. “Does he not realise the danger we are in?”

Lyarra shoves him into the closest chambers, barring the door behind her. She watches as he paces back and forth, his worries laid forth on his face like winter roses in a field of snow. She knows how difficult it is to control rage but she cannot believe Robb would be so irresponsible as to rage before the men of the Night’s Watch. They weren’t exactly a trustworthy lot and he knows that.

When he finally settles, she asks, “Are you done?”

“I cannot risk you,” Robb declares, turning to face the window. “I let you fight the Lannisters, and they took you. I let you ride a dragon, and the dead nearly claimed you. If I let you meet these wildlings, I could lose you again.”

Lyarra rolls her eyes. “You know how well I take to being told what to do.”

“Can you not see how dangerous this is?” Robb asks, turning to face her. His concern is scalding, suffocating her with just one look. “The wildlings would take one look at you and decide you’re a prize they wish to steal.”

“And you think I would let a wildling steal me?” Lyarra asks, laughing.

“You have been stolen before.”

The air between them tenses and Lyarra looks to her feet. His words ring true in her ears and evoke memories she has locked away. Tywin's hands, Tywin's kisses, Tywin's laughter. Even as a ghost, he seeks to imprison her. _Remember me,_ he whispers. _I certainly remember you, bastard._

“Aye, I have,” Lyarra says, her spine turning to steel. “I won’t let it happen again.”

Crossing the room, Lyarra reaches up to cradle his face. Robb meets her eyes with reluctance and in them, she can see the desperation to keep her close. If it was up to Robb, Lyarra thinks she would be kept in Winterfell's highest tower. She wants to rage against his sense of ownership, his sense of entitlement, but she cannot; not when she knows she wishes to keep Robb locked up in the same tower, far from the battles that would seek to destroy him.

“Look at me,” Lyarra murmurs, bringing his hand to her heart. “Feel that? My heart beats for you. I have survived lions, vipers and dragons alike. I shall survive savages too.”

Robb gazes down at his hand, flexing his fingers beneath her palm. She can feel her heart, beating steadily and she hopes he can feel it too. But then he moves away, a sigh on his lips and heartbreak in his eyes. “I feel a heart that can be stopped by anybody with a sharp enough blade. I see a woman fool enough to think herself invincible.”

“I do not.”

“Surviving the cruelty of some does not save you from the cruelty of others,” Robb snaps, turning away from her. She can see his shoulders slump as his hands come to his face, the sound of his breath rattling through the room. “I have lost you once. I can’t lose you again.”

Lyarra wraps her arms around his waist from behind, reaching up to place a kiss on his shoulder. “Don’t let fear blind your logic, Robb. You cannot keep me safe by putting me in chains.”

Robb turns in her arms, his eyes darkening at her words. “You think I want to put you in chains?” Lyarra opens her mouth to respond before he holds up her wrist, showing the scars from her previous time in shackles. “You think I would want to do this to you? You think I would do what _he_ did?”

“Robb…”

Robb doesn’t listen. Instead, he pushes her up against the wall – his nose drawing up against her neck and his lips pressing against her jaw. Her hands come to his face before he pulls them up against her head – pinning her to the stone.

“You think I want to chain you?” He asks again, nipping at her throat. “I could never chain you.” His lips go to her ear, sucking at her lobe. “I would never want to chain you.” Robb falls to his knees, unlacing her breeches. “I would never want a chained woman.”

He pulls her small clothes down and wastes no time in licking into her. Lyarra lets out a shout of shock before she is grinding her hips into his face, her unbound hands now coming to his hair as he feasts on her. His name slips from her lips as he begins to suck at the button at the peak of her core.

“Robb, Robb, Robb- _gods._ ”

When she comes, it is with a rush of burning fire and a hushed scream. Robb stands, his chin and lips glistening before he is unlacing his own breeches. His cock is hard against her thigh and she reaches down to take him in hand. Robb lets out a hiss as her nails scrape up his length, his words coming out short, “I would never want a meek woman.”

His fingers come to his folds, lining his cock up with her entrance. “I would never want a controlled woman.”

He enters her with a groan. Her hands come to his face, but he holds them above her hair – pushing her into the stone once more. She ruts against him, unsatisfied, but he is determined to have her slowly.

“I want a wild woman,” He bites out, thrusting deeply into her, “a warrior,” he nips at her neck, “a dragon.”

He lets out a growl as he slams his hips to hers, stilling as he spills his seed deep within her. Lyarra lets out a groan, her head falling against his shoulder as his hands go to that button once more. He brings her to her peak again, her legs trembling before she unravels.

Pulling out, Robb turns away from her and laces himself up. Lyarra slides down the wall, her heartbeat erratic from their frantic fucking.

“I could never wish to chain you, Lya,” Robb murmurs, kneeling down to press a kiss to her lips. “I just want to keep you safe. I want to keep you safe enough to bring you home.”

“Your Queen would not like that,” Lyarra breathes, trying to regain control of her lungs.

“My Queen.” Robb falls to sit beside her, burying his face in his hands. “She is everything you are not.”

Lyarra flinches, only for Robb to gather her hands in his, pressing kiss after kiss to her skin. “Roslin is a good woman and I know I’m hurting her by doing this. But I loved you first. I loved you first. I loved _you_ first.”

“Hush,” Lyarra soothes, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips. “It’s alright. We’re alright.”

“For now,” Robb murmurs. “Then the wildlings will come, and you will return south with your family.”

The word family is said with such spite Lyarra struggles to recognise him.

“We will still be alright,” Lyarra assures, moving his face to meet her eyes. “Forget wives and wildlings and all the rest. We shall always be Lya and Robb… just Dunk and Egg.”

The words are meant to be light-hearted but somehow, they fall flat.

“We can’t forget about wildlings and wives,” Robb whispers, seeming much younger than eight and ten. “They won’t let us.”

And somehow, she knows he is right.

* * *

The gate creaks shut behind them, shuddering with the strength of a thousand years.

Ghost pads out in front of them, his tongue lolling out of his mouth as he takes a whiff of the true north. The wide open space is one Lyarra has dreamed of for many years. She has heard all the stories, dreamt all the possibilities – and here it is. The snow is a pristine white, untouched and clean. The sun shines down on it, the last leg of autumn slowly unravelling.

Lyarra glances to Robb, a Stark standing before the wall. Like the snow, his auburn hair shines beautifully beneath the light of the sun. She is struck by his beauty just for a moment, before Edd pushes through the snow with a complaint.

“Ready?” Edd asks, looking far too gaunt to be negotiating with wildlings. Lyarra recalls he was once a steward, before the Night’s Watch lost all sense of order.

Lyarra nods, following Edd through the snow. It takes a mile or so to reach the wildling settlement, where the free folk watch the invaders with suspicion. Those that recognise Edd do so with hesitant gazes. Lyarra isn’t shocked. To think a brother of the Night’s Watch would ever be an ally to wildlings is almost incomprehensible, but so were many things these days.

The only noise that can be heard as they trench through the snow is whispers of what they were. Kneelers, some say; hissing through the silence like serpents through long grass.

For a wildling, Mance Rayder is a man of many titles. The King beyond the Wall doesn’t bother to stand as they walk into his tent, his eyes focused on the lute in his hands. A woman of fine yellow hair stands beside him, every inch a wildling Lyarra imagines. But Mance does not conform to such dress – instead, wearing fine silks over his pelts.

A man with vibrant hair of red stands in the corner, feasting on a hare.

“Careful, crow,” Mance begins, his eyes appraising Lyarra. “Your girl may be stolen before the hour is out.”

Lyarra places her hand on the pommel of her blade. “I think I will be able to handle myself.”

“Aye?” Mance asks, standing. He glances at Robb. “Is this your wife?”

“Cousin.”

A roar of laughter escapes Mance Rayder. “Same thing to you kneelers!”

Lyarra doesn’t bother to look ashamed. She has been forced to wear guilt as her cloak for years, but here, out beyond the wall, she will not let a wildling force her into that cloak once more. She shed it the moment she sat atop Rhaegal the first time, a dragon for all to see. A woman with a purpose, a woman with an identity. No man could make her feel shame now; not when she does so well at enforcing it herself.

“We have come to offer you sanctuary in the south.” Mance doesn’t look surprised by this. “If you wish to avoid the dead, you must cross the wall and come south.”

“Must?” Mance tosses the word cavalierly. “The free folk do not listen to orders.”

“We are not ordering,” Robb says, his tone more diplomatic. “When the winter winds blow cold, it shall be the free folk that fall first. If you refuse our offer, you shall perish. Each and every one of the wildlings under your protection shall succumb to the Night King. Is that a risk worth taking?”

The free folk would have you believe they would never follow a kneeler. But in the end, it seems even the free folk know when they must heed.

Mance shares a look with the woman at his side, before he reluctantly nods.

“The Lord Commander needs blood before you can cross,” Lyarra explains. “He says two of his men were murdered by those under your command. We request those responsible to await the King’s justice.”

Mance scoffs. “King’s justice? And I suppose that would you, Starkling?”

Robb does not flinch at the insult. “It takes a King to ridicule the title, Mance?”

“I've never had a crown on my head or sat my arse on a bloody throne, if that's what you're asking. My birth is as low as a man's can get, no septon's ever smeared my head with oils, I don't own any castle. I am my own champion, my own fool, and my own harpist.” Mance looks to Lyarra. “Is it true you have dragons?”

“I didn’t think you knew who I was.”

Mance chuckles. “I have heard about eyes like those before. I may be a savage to you southerners, but I was south once and I have heard all there is to hear about House Targaryen. Trust the honourable Lord Stark to name you his whelp.”

Lyarra sighs. “There is little time for this. Either give us the men responsible or don’t. It matters not to me, Mance.”

“They are already dead,” Mance says, glancing at the man beside him. “Tormund here killed them.”

Lyarra cocks a brow. “Do you really think we would believe that?”

Mance withers her with a glare colder than the Wall, before he motions to the woman at his side. “Bring the truth, then, Val,” Mance orders, although Lyarra is sure he would never admit to ordering the free folk around.

Val, the woman with fair hair, comes back with three children – barely older than Arya and Bran.

“There you have them,” Mance says. “You Starks like to swing the sword yourselves, don’t you? Go right ahead.”  

Lyarra is already turning away from the King Beyond the Wall when she says, “You would lie to me?”

Mance Rayder taunts her with his smile. “A lie is only a lie if discovered.”

Robb chases after her as she storms out of the tent, fury in her step. “Lya, wait!”

Lyarra turns to face her King. “He’s refusing to give us the men that murdered the crows. Without them, we can’t help these people. Doesn’t he understand that?”  

Robb risks a glance back to the tent. “Lord Mormont won’t allow them through without justice.”

“Aye, I know,” Lyarra says, infuriated. “I suppose they’ll have to wait another day.”

As soon as they cross over the threshold of the Wall, Lyarra knows the wildlings will not be welcomed when Mance Rayder eventually relents. She can see the reluctance in the eyes of the Lord Commander; and the pure disdain found on the face of Alliser Thorne.

That disdain turns into pure contempt when Lyarra approaches the Lord Commander.

“Where are they?” Jeor asks, casting his gaze over the returning party.

“Hiding.” Robb has never been a good liar but in this moment, he is flawless. There is no trace of guilt on his features, nor is there the usual hint of self-enforced shame. Gone is the boy that once fretted over honour and truth; in his place is a man moulded by war. “The King Beyond the Wall will find them by the morrow, or so he hopes.”

“I thought you Starks weren’t patient,” Ser Alliser sneers, almost spitting the words.  

“We can be, depending on the circumstances,” Robb replies, his tone as cold as the air that surrounds them. Pushing past the crow, Robb offers him little attention as he says, “And as King in the North, I suppose I can be as patient as I wish.”

Lyarra follows after her cousin, avoiding the watchful gaze of Lord Mormont. He shares the eyes of his sister – and Lyarra is unsure over her ability to lie to the eyes of Maege Mormont.

She may be a heathen, a dragon, and a killer – but she is no liar.

“Thank you,” Lyarra murmurs when they are finally inside.  

“You were always a bad liar, despite your name.” Robb presses a kiss to her forehead, going to sit down and take the correspondence.

“What news from Winterfell?”

A shadow falls over Robb’s face. “Lord Bolton is growing restless. He wants me to legitimize his bastard.”

“Why don’t you?”

“He is not a man I would wish to inherit,” Robb explains, shaking his head in disgust. “There have been whispers of what he does to people. To his prisoners. I nearly took his head when I learned what he did to Greyjoy.”

Lyarra winces at the memory of Theon Greyjoy. He had disappeared after taking Winterfell, only to be captured by Ramsay Snow. Robb had told her of the horror that befell him during their first night; a horror that saw Theon butchered as well as broken. That horror turned to death soon enough and Theon Greyjoy met his end with Robb’s steel. “Why didn’t you?”

“Loyalty,” Robb says, rubbing at his face. “If I executed Ramsay Snow, I would lose Lord Bolton.”

“What a loss.”

Robb rolls his eyes. “You never liked Lord Roose.”

“He makes me uncomfortable,” Lyarra says with a shrug. “That is all.”

“He makes many people uncomfortable, Dunk,” Robb murmurs, before passing her a letter. “Sansa says hello.”

Sanaa’s cursive is just as beautiful as it was the day she had sent her note in King’s Landing. Lyarra traces the ink, where her sister's fine hand had written the meticulous message. “She is a woman grown now.”  

“Aye, and a right pain too,” Robb mutters, breaking the seal of House Tully. “She is more like you than anybody else.”

“Me?” Lyarra gapes at the suggestion. “Sansa is too much like her mother to ever be like me.”

“She may have my mothers look, but she is not as she once was. She doesn’t want to marry, nor does she want to leave the North. She’s sombre now, always frowning. She reminds me of Father… of you.”

Lyarra seats herself on the corner of his desk. “I don’t frown that much.”

“No?” Robb asks, his hands coming to rest on her hips as he pulls her into his lap. She lets out a surprised squeal, before her laughter echoes through the chambers as he attacks her with his lips. By the end of it, she is wearing a large smile – bursting, almost. Robb traces her reddened lips, his thumb toying between them. “You don’t smile as you once did.”

“There is little to smile about,” Lyarra places a hand on his cheek, leaning forward to taste him. Her tongue enters his mouth, her sigh swallowed by his lips. “Not usually, at least.”

“Not usually,” Robb echoes, giving her his own smile.

A horn blasts through the silence between them. “OPEN THE GATES!”

They spring into action, racing to the stairs to see a rider entering Castle Black. The first thing Lyarra notices is the blood on the snow. The rider that had been allowed through the gates collapses once inside the courtyard, slumping on the neck of his gaunt looking horse.

“It’s Ser Davos,” Robb recognizes, thundering down the steps. “Men! Help him!”

Lyarra follows her King, watching as the ground becomes stained by blood. “Seven hells,” Lyarra curses as Ser Davos is helped from the horse. “We have to get him to Maester Aemon.”

“No, no,” Ser Davos rasps out, his hands coming to press on his stomach wound. “You have to… leave.”

Robb slings one of Ser Davos’ arms across his shoulders, moving to take him to the Maester. Ser Davos lets out a string of curses as he is moved, clinging to the reins of his horse. “No. No. _No_.”

“Ser Davos, we must get you inside,” Lyarra begs. Heavy steps thunder down the stairs behind them as shouts rise up from the crows come to help. Looking down, Lyarra finds blood staining her fingers as she goes to control the bleeding. She can see the older knight has been stabbed, his gut gushing at his side.

“No,” Ser Davos grits out, ignoring the others as they rush around. His bloodied fingers come to grab her chin as Robb’s men swarm around them. “You need to go. They… they…” He breaks off, letting out a groan of pain.

“Ser Davos?” Lyarra leans down to help him. “Where do I need to go?”  

“They’re burning her,” Ser Davos bites out. “They’re burning Princess Shireen. You must _go_.”

Her feet are sprinting before she can register the words. Robb is calling her name, Daenerys too, but she cannot listen. Not now. Rhaegal must sense her panic for he is already scampering to meet her, his neck bending down to allow her access. Pulling herself up, Lyarra grasps hold of the ridges on Rhaegal’s back and commands him as only she knows how: _fly._

Without her cloak, the air splinters at her skin and causes a chill to take hold. She is so cold she is burning and it seems Rhaegal can feel it too. But she cannot let the cold distract her now, not when she knows another girl is burning just as she.

When she spots the Baratheon camp, Lyarra can see the flames almost instantly. They lick at the snow and the girl tied to the stake. A roar pierces the sky at the sight before them. While Rhaegal is fire made flesh, even he can sense the injustice his familiar feels at the sight before them.

A cry from the soldiers sound at the sight of the dragon above, the men scrambling as Rhaegal lands. Roaring, he swings around – letting out a cry only grief could inspire. Lyarra doesn’t pay attention, her feet moving towards the fire before she can even think. Unsheathing the blade Renly Baratheon had gifted her so long ago, Lyarra launches herself onto the flames.

She is supposed to burn. That is her first thought. She has burnt before; she has the scars to prove it. A nasty tumble into the hearth one day at just twelve and two had left Lyarra with a burn along the side of her left calf. She had complained about it at the time, so distraught by the mauled skin. She remembers the look she had received from her father, a relief of sorts.

Lyarra knows now why her father was relieved. It would have been disastrous if his bastard niece had fallen into the flames and remained unburnt. But of course there was no need to worry about an unburnt Targaryen. The House of fire and blood may have once commanded dragons and flames, but in the years that followed the conquest, such feats had fallen and so had their freedom from the fury of fire.

The Targaryen’s of Summerhall proved this. As the flames destroyed the palace they loved, they too had burned. But then Daenerys bore dragons, and Rhaegal had claimed Lyarra. And she had changed.

Lyarra watches as the flames lick at her skin, over and over, but she has no time to remain stunned. Shireen is screaming in her ear, begging for relief from the blaze, begging for her father's help. Grasping the burning ropes, Lyarra cuts through them and grabs a hold of the screaming Princess, before shoving her off the pyre.

They hit the snow with a thud, screams surrounding them. Lyarra can hear Rhaegal roaring in the background. She can feel his rage twist around her heart, filling her body with flames and fury. But it is the sound of Shireen’s cries that haunt her, the pain ricocheting through the air.

“Princess, it’s alright,” Lyarra whispers, cutting off the ropes that have melted into the skin of her wrists. Looking over the small girl, Lyarra knows it is _not_ alright. The child is burnt badly – her flesh exposed as the skin of her neck peels off. This child, this girl, has been tortured by the fire that her father sought to sacrifice her to; and there is nothing Lyarra can do but _lie_. “You’re safe now.”

Her vision blurs and it’s then she realises she’s weeping. Wiping at her face, Lyarra jolts as a hand comes to rest on her shoulder. Violet eyes meet hers, and she finds Dany standing before her. She may wear a crown, but when confronted by the sight of a burned child, Daenerys does not bother to hide her torment.

“She needs to be taken back to Castle Black,” Lyarra commands, her voice mangled by her panic. “Maester Aemon needs to see her _now_.”

Daenerys nods. “Go. I shall handle this.”

Viserion lands as Lyarra shakes her head. “No. Aegon shall go. I will stay here and deliver your justice.”

Daenerys opens her mouth to argue the issue before she rethinks it. Nodding, she calls Aegon over. The Targaryen heir looks at the burned remains of Shireen Baratheon, his beautiful face contorting in horror. “What have they-”

“Don’t upset her,” Lyarra snaps. Aegon meets her gaze – indigo on indigo – and he nods. He is still hesitant around her after their incident beyond the wall, but he doesn’t hesitate now. “You must be the one to take her, Aegon. Be a comfort to her.”

Shireen lets out a moan, tear tracks mauling her red face. “Of course.”

Lyarra watches Aegon leave, careful to keep Shireen steady as he makes his way back to his dragon. Daenerys is heaving her fury at her side, her fists clenching as Drogon lets out a roar. The men are scrambling around them, terrified of the dragons that rage into the sky. Lyarra relishes the sight. These men would have stood by and watched as their Princess burned. _Let them think they will burn too,_ she thinks, half tempted to say the word that will see fire rain down on them all.

Daenerys looks like she wants the same thing.  But there is something holding her back, a steel that chains her from saying the word they have both become accustomed to whispering.

“Good men,” Daenerys declares, her voice thundering over the screams. “Deliver me your King, his Queen, and Lady Melisandre. Deliver me these three and I shall spare your lives. Stay loyal to Stannis Baratheon and you shall all suffer the same fate as his daughter.”

There is one truth about war that no one wishes to acknowledge. When starved, cold and tired, knights, soldiers, and Lords will forsake honour if death comes calling. Men will make bargains, plead heartily and sacrifice every last ounce of their purse if it means they avoid the Stranger. Lyarra has seen it before; time and time again, as death is delivered, men beg for mercy.

Daenerys Targaryen offers the men mercy; and mercy they take.

The men turn on their King as quickly as the offer is made and in moments, Stannis Baratheon, his wife, and their red woman are pushed to their knees. Lyarra stares at them, so utterly confused. Her Lord Father had traded his honour for her life. Stannis Baratheon had tried to trade his daughter’s life for a chance at victory.

Lyarra cannot even bear to look at him, but for all her stomach is urging her to look away, she cannot. She wants Stannis Baratheon to feel the hatred in her gaze before he meets his end. She wants Stannis Baratheon to know what it feels like to look into the eyes of a betrayed daughter. _See Shireen in my eyes, you monster,_ she thinks, _see your sins in my eyes._

Arianne’s words ring true in her ears. _Men are monsters hidden by skin and bone, and we women are expected to endure them_

She was right.

She was right.

She was right.

And gods, how Lyarra wishes she wasn’t.

But then she looks to Selyse Baratheon and the Lady Melisandre and she wonders if they are monsters too. Selyse had borne Shireen, birthed her and bled for her; and yet here she is, sacrificing her daughter to a God she doesn’t know to be true. _Women can be just as hateful and cruel as the rest of them,_ a voice whispers in her ear. 

“Is she alive?” Lady Selyse pleads, grappling for answers.

“What do you care?” Daenerys retorts, her voice colder than the winds that surround them. “You were burning her at the stake.”

“Princess Shireen knew the sacrifice she was making,” Lady Melisandre says, her doubt a shadow on her features. “The Lord of Light would have welcomed her into his arms.”

Lyarra walks over to face the red woman, leaning down to meet her eyes. “Your Lord would have you burn a girl of two and ten?”

Lady Melisandre looks down, her voice as soft as a whisper when she says, “The Lord of Light needs innocence to grant life.”

Lyarra swings her hand back and slaps the red woman hard across the face. Lady Selyse lets out a cry of shock, calling out the priestesses’ name. Lyarra pays her no attention – not when she can still see the peeling skin and hear the cries of agony slip from Shireen’s mouth. _Monsters. They’re all monsters._

Lyarra moves to stand before Stannis Baratheon, glaring into the eyes of Robert and Renly before him. These are the eyes of a man she once loved and a man she once hated. These are the eyes of a monster she now loathes. Glancing over her shoulder, she asks, “What would you have me do with him, your grace?”

“He shall die,” Daenerys decides, glancing over to the men that wait for her direction. She glances to the dragons as well – and Lyarra can see the torment in her eyes. She wants to use fire. “They all shall.”

“Good,” Lyarra murmurs, looking down at the man that would have been King. “Tell me, Lord Stannis, was it worth it?”

Stannis doesn’t bother to meet her eyes. “Shireen agreed.”

“Shireen is a girl of two and ten.” Lyarra grabs his face, forcing him to meet her eyes. “You would have watched your own daughter burn. You would have done _nothing._ Not even the Lord of Light shall forgive murder.”

“The Lord of Light understands,” Lady Melisandre murmurs from his side. “He forgives us all for what we must do for him.”

“Does he?” Lyarra asks. “Because the night is dark and full of terrors?” Lady Melisandre opens her mouth to speak before Lyarra cuts her off. “In your religion, how do you handle the dead?”

The question seems to surprise the red woman, but she supplies an answer. “We give the dying the last kiss, Princess. We breathe fire into their soul.”

“So you wish to die by fire?” Lyarra asks, glancing over her shoulder at Daenerys. She hopes her intentions are made clear on her face. She hopes the Queen will agree. She hopes the Gods will, too.

“Die?” Lady Melisandre laughs. “There is no death in fire. Only life, Princess.”

“Good,” Lyarra snaps, turning on her heel. Grabbing Lady Selyse by her arm, she yanks her up and drags her to stand before the stake her daughter had burned.

The would-be Queen trembles at her touch, rambling beneath her breath. “You must believe… I didn’t wish this… The Lord of light must have a sacrifice… _please_ …”

“Kneel, Lady Selyse,” Lyarra murmurs, shoving her down. The gaunt woman follows Lyarra’s commands, her hands coming to clasp before her in prayer. Her eyes shut too – her lips moving too fast to understand. Her hand goes to the hilt of her sword before she catches the Queen's gaze. “Do you consent, your grace?”

Lyarra can tell Daenerys wants to burn them. But burning them would give them what they want, a death they didn’t deserve. If they succumbed to the flames of her dragons, they would be sacrificed to the Lord of light; a deity they were more than happy to sacrifice a child too. Burning Stannis Baratheon would be too easy; and far too dishonourable.

Daenerys moves towards her niece, her hand coming to rest on Lyarra’s arm. “You don’t wish to burn them?”

“They do not deserve fire, your grace,” Lyarra says. “They should die as they lived; with little importance.”

Daenerys looks to the woman that kneels before them, her prayers becoming louder now. It is hard to look at Selyse Baratheon without seeing her pain. She is a woman transformed by her hunger; the person she once was disappearing just as flesh slipped from the bone. Where there was once hope, there is now emptiness. But in those pale eyes, there is still a brightness that knew of shame; that knew of guilt.

“Do as you will, then,” Daenerys orders, turning back to the soldiers that watch. These men had survived through battles and hunger, yet it is the burning of a little girl that strips them of their loyalty. For all that Renly had sought to divide them, for all that the Lannisters sought to destroy them, it seems nothing could change loyalties as much as Shireen Baratheon. “You have all watched a horrific act take place. A child has been burned at the stake and for that, there is no mercy. Your King shall die today and so shall your Queen. My dragons shall not dirty their fire with the blood of these traitors. Instead, the guilty shall meet the sword of House Targaryen.”

 _They would have watched her burn;_ a voice reminds her. The realisation leaves a metallic taste in her mouth, her disgust running cold. _They would have celebrated her death._

“Won’t there be a trial?” Lady Selyse asks, clawing at Lyarra’s side. “There has to be a trial.”

Lyarra meets the eyes of her delusion. “We saw you burning your daughter, Lady Selyse. There is no need for a trial.”

“But it wasn’t me, it wasn’t me,” Lady Selyse rambles, her nails digging into Lyarra’s leathers. “Lady Melisandre said it was the only way. She said it was the only way to see Stannis win this war. Shireen agreed. She agreed. She understood.”

“You expected a child to understand what you asked of her?” Lyarra leans down. “She is your daughter, Lady Selyse. You birthed her and then you burned her. There is nothing you can say that will save your life now.”

“Please, no, no, _no_ …” Lady Selyse throws herself onto the ground, her wails piercing the air. “I beg mercy. I beg mercy, my lady.”

“There is no mercy for sins such as these,” Daenerys snaps, her silver hair catching in the wind. Fury lights her features as a shadow falls over the camp. “End it, Lyarra.”

Lady Selyse continues to wail as Lyarra extracts her sword. The blade she once named Storm would end the life of Lady Selyse – that she is sure. Lyarra thinks it poetic justice that the blade gifted by Renly Baratheon would be used to execute his killers, or so Lady Catelyn believed. _A shadow,_ Lady Brienne had described.

“In the name of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons, I, Lyarra Snow, bastard of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, sentence you to die.”

Lady Selyse lets out a scream as Lyarra pulls her up from the ground and sets her on her knees. Looking out to the soldiers, Lyarra orders, “I need a block.”

Two soldiers dart into the camp, where Lyarra is sure the ugly piece of wood is kept. Stannis Baratheon was a king, after all – and Kings needed to carry out executions.

“Here, my lady.” The block is placed before Lyarra’s feet by a boy no older than Bran. He stares at her nervously, his eyes darting back and forth between her blade and the dragon at her back. Lyarra can feel Rhaegal nudge forward, his presence warming her from where he stands.

“Thank you,” Lyarra murmurs, looking down to the blood-stained wood. “Lay your neck on the block, Lady Selyse.”

“No, no, no,” The Lady of Dragonstone moans, shaking her head. Lyarra pushes her down, holding her neck in place.

“Lady Selyse,” Lyarra murmurs gently, leaning down. “If you move, this will be harder. Keep your neck in place and you shall feel no pain.”  

Straightening, Lyarra waits until Selyse Baratheon stills. “Have you any last words, Lady Selyse?”

Her pale eyes, full of tears, squint shut as she nods. “Tell Shireen I did it for her. I did it all for her.”

Lyarra’s stomach twists violently. _Liar,_ she wants to scream, but her lips remain firmly shut. Instead, she swings her sword back and cuts through the neck of Selyse Baratheon. Her head comes off with no noise; blood spurting into the dirt as the head rolls on the ground. And just like that, she is dead.

“Move her body,” Lyarra commands as she wipes her sword. Turning to Stannis, she cocks a brow. “Will you need to be pulled like your wife, Lord Stannis, or can I trust you to walk to the block?”

Stannis Baratheon meets her hard gaze with a stoic one of his own. Standing, two men that once followed him escort him to the block. Lyarra wonders what it must be like to be led to the Stranger by men once loyal to you. She wonders what it must be like to watch a once beloved daughter burn, but for that, she will never have an answer. _Madness,_ her mind supplies, but not even madness could excuse such depravity.

It takes every ounce of control to not wrap her own hands around Stannis Baratheon’s neck. She wants to feel as the life slips away from him, as his heart gives out. She wants to be the one to do it. She thinks it just that one scored daughter should seek vengeance for another.

Lyarra is not a dull girl, neither lacking in intelligence or wisdom. She knows what it means to be the daughter of a great lord. She has lived most of her life, as the daughter of a great lord. Such a life has endowed her with the knowledge of what it means to be looked over and sold. Traded, as she once was, to the son of a King; all for the sake of Robert Baratheon’s own pleasure.

She has made many excuses for Eddard Stark over the years. When his head was struck from his neck, her memories of the man that raised her became smoothed over by a haze of perfection. No wrong could be done by the ghost that haunted her, but even she could not deny how wronged she had felt when Doran Martell told her of Eddard Starks many lies.

 _Liar,_ she had thought, time and time and time again. When the moon would be at its height and Oberyn laid asleep beside her, she would imagine her Lord Fathers – _uncles –_ face and curse it. _A liar dressed up as a martyr,_ she had thought, over and over again. The guilt would come, of course – but the anger never did leave her. Even when the bitterness was stripped away by Rhaegal’s fire, the anger remained. As it always would.

That day in Dorne saw Lyarra’s name stripped from her back and her identity torn to shreds. But her love for Eddard Stark remains. Lyarra loves her father with an enduring passion, but she also hates him as well. She hates his lies. She hates his masquerade. She hates his treachery. But most of all, she hates him for dying and leaving her with such hatred.

For she knows if he had lived, Eddard Stark would erode away her anger with one smile. _Come, my Lya,_ he would whisper, apologies in hand. _I will tell you all you wish to hear._ And she would have forgiven him, she is sure, after her time of sulking was over. She knows she would have forgiven him, for a smile from Eddard Stark was rain to ease a drought.

Yet he is not here to smile or whisper his apologies. Eddard Stark lays rotting in the ground, taking with her all the apologies and forgiveness she so seeks. Lyarra hates him for that; hates him more than the smallfolk hate winter.

But for all her hatred, she knows her father would never harm her.

His lies may have injured her pride, her identity, her name, but Eddard Stark had never raised a hand towards her. His actions may have led to hurt, but his eyes were always soft and his kindness knew no bounds. Her father loved her, enough to forsake his honour for her, and she knows he would never have subjected her to pain.

Stannis Baratheon had placed his daughter on a pile of wood and set fire at her feet.

Stannis Baratheon stood stock still as his daughter burned.

Stannis Baratheon would have murdered his babe for a throne.

“In the name of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons, I, Lyarra Snow, bastard of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, sentence you to die.”

She takes a breath.

“Any last words, King Stannis?” She says the words mockingly, her tone laced with the poison she wishes to feed him.

Stannis Baratheon meets her gaze, the eyes of his brother mocking her. In those two orbs, she can see the King leering down at her, his lust an ocean and his hands a storm. Yet she can also see Renly, kind and gentle and as gallant as the knights of all the stories. _I hope he knows it was Renly that gifted me this sword,_ Lyarra thinks, the grooves of her hilt digging into her palms. _It is right I kill Stannis with the sword Renly gave me._

“Go on,” Stannis says, his voice gruff. “Do your duty.”

Lyarra nods, pushing the King claimant to his knees and shoving his head over the block. “May the Gods have mercy on your soul, Stannis Baratheon, for I shall not.”

Her sword swings back and his head comes off.  

Lyarra looks at his body as it collapses in on itself, falling from the block. “Move the body.”

When the red woman is presented before her, she smiles with a knowledge Lyarra knows not and declares, “Today is not the day I die, Princess. I shall die when death itself crosses the wall and comes to claim us all.”

Lyarra purses her lips, glancing at Dany.

“If you kill me, you will be lost when the Long Night comes,” Melisandre says, her nails digging into Lyarra’s hands and her desperation infiltrating her words.  “Would you take that risk?”

Lyarra opens her mouth before Daenerys makes her ruling. “You shall be taken as a hostage, Lady Melisandre. If you’re worth what you say you are, you shall prove it when the time comes.”

“Daenerys,” Lyarra hisses, shocked.

The Queen shoots her a hard look, before looking out to the soldiers.

Lyarra watches in fury as Melisandre is put in chains, smoke burning her nose. But it is the knowledge of what didn’t burn that haunts her.

It is later, when the soldiers are in full swing and preparing to march to Castle Black, that Daenerys raises the subject.

“You didn’t burn.”

Lyarra shakes her head. “No.”

Daenerys purses her lips. “But you burnt before?” Lyarra remains silent. “What do you think that means?”

“I don’t know.”

Dany moves to finger a tendril of raven hair, singed and withered. Her hair no longer sits at her waist as it had been. Instead, it now lays in ruins at her shoulders – singed from the flames that didn’t burn her skin. “Bastard or not, you are a dragon. That’s what it means.”

* * *

“Dead?”

Lyarra nods, avoiding Robbs gaze. He is watching over her like a hawk, his expression darkened by the news she brought. When she told Robb of what she saw, he had paled. He didn’t think it possible that the man he broke bread with a mere moon prior could do something so foul. _Stannis Baratheon burnt men and women before his daughter,_ she wants to say, _you cannot accept one madness and act shocked at another._

She doesn’t say any of those things, though – instead moving to wait outside Princess Shireen’s chambers. Daenerys sits beside her, her hand in hers. It is fitting that two women, once fractured and broken, can offer comfort to the other now whole. Men had tried to break them both and yet here they sit, alive and well, while the men of their nightmares rot in the ground.

 _Shireen can join us when she is well,_ Lyarra thinks, wincing as screams echo through the hall.

Aegon cracks the door open when the screams simper, his expression tired. Lyarra is on her feet in an instant, peppering him with questions. “Is she alive?”

“Barely,” Aegon explains, wiping the blood from his hands. “She lost a lot of blood on the flight to Castle Black. I thought she was dead by the time we landed but she’s still breathing.”

“Thank the Gods,” Daenerys murmurs. “And her burns?”

“Catastrophic,” Aegon chokes. “Fortunately her face has escaped the worst of them.”

“Fortunately…” Lyarra echoes, her hands clenching at her side. She had seen the greyscale that had already marred the child’s face. Shireen Baratheon knew what it meant to be disfigured before the flames took hold. Lyarra imagines these burns will be just another plague on her confidence.

Lyarra decides, then and there, that when Shireen Baratheon is well enough, she shall hold her close and tell her all the things a woman can be – with or without beauty. _Beauty is a plague;_ she will tell her. _Beauty finds the attention of men you never wished to meet. Beauty sees you married to a man you could never love. Beauty is a scourge on your life._

She will teach Shireen just what a woman can be, with or without beauty. She will teach her about swords and songs and dragons and horses and Kings and Queens. She will teach her about the east and battles and scars too. _See these,_ she would share, taking Shireen’s hands and trailing the scars that Lyarra now wears, _they are the true cost of survival._

Lyarra knows she will share every piece of wisdom she holds, in the hope that Shireen Baratheon will know she is not alone. As a woman damaged by her father, Shireen would wear her scars with shame, or so she would have if left to dwell. Lyarra would not allow that girl to wear shame, not as she once did. _Her scars are a sign of her father’s sins, not hers._

“What does Maester Aemon say?” Daenerys asks. “Will she live?”

“Yes, he believes so,” Aegon says, his face turning contemplative. “I think… I think we should stay until we can be sure.”

Daenerys purses her lips. “We have already delayed for Lyarra. We cannot delay any longer.”

“I know, I know,” Aegon says, worry pinching at his face. “I just don’t want to leave her here alone.”

Lyarra looks to her brother, feeling a surge of admiration. They may not have talked since the day beyond the wall, but in the time since, Aegon had been nothing but respectful. When he offered his apologies, he respected her wish for distance and instead, watched her from afar.

Aegon had been searching for glory beyond the wall. When it came to claiming glory today, he left it to the women of his House and instead saved the life of a sickly child. Lyarra feels her gut-warming with gratitude, with relief that her brother was not the man she had feared him to be that day beyond the wall. _He is not like Rhaegar,_ a voice whispers. She shuts the thought away, sending it far from her mind. _Or maybe he is._

“One more night,” Daenerys concedes, “and then we will return to Dorne where our real purpose lies.”

Daenerys sweeps out of the hall and into Shireen’s chamber, leaving Aegon and Lyarra alone. Aegon offers a tight smile to his sister before he too moves to leave. Catching his wrist, Lyarra stops him. “Thank you for saving her.”

“She’s just a girl,” Aegon mutters, his eyes far away. It seems that finally, after all this time, he is a man rather than the boy she first met. “She’s a child.”

“Men do awful things to children every day,” Lyarra murmurs. “We just don’t like to think about it.”

Aegon’s jaw locks, and he looks down to the floor. “When I am King, no man shall get away with harming innocent babes.”

Lyarra is moving before she could stop herself, her hand coming to cup her brother’s cheek. He seems surprised by the move, his breath hitching. “How many Princes before you have made such a declaration and failed to keep their promise? You may be good, Aegon, but not even the greatest King can rid the world of evil.”

Aegon swallows deeply, meeting his sister’s eyes. “I cannot be a good King if I break promises.”

“You truly are a child of summer, brother,” Lyarra murmurs, catching sight of Robb’s figure behind them. The King in the North is watching them with a heady gaze, dark in his estimation. “Go get some rest. You’ll need it if you wish to watch over Princess Shireen tonight.”

Aegon leaves her and Robb replaces him. “She is no princess now.”

“Once a princess, always a princess,” Lyarra murmurs, her eyes on the door. “She has had so much taken from her already. I wouldn’t want to see her title stripped away just yet.”

“No,” Robb agrees before he glances in the direction Aegon went. “So you’ve forgiven him?”

“There is little time to hold grudges during war, Robb. You should know that.”

The courtyard is bustling as Lyarra makes her way down the stairs. Through the gates, she finds the outer edges of Castle Black now a soldier’s barracks, tent after tent being constructed before her very eyes. She avoids the gazes of the soldiers that seek to gawk at her, reminding her of a time long gone; a time in the Riverland’s before lions and vipers and dragons.

“My lady.”

Glancing over her shoulder, Lyarra spies one of Stannis’ soldiers. “What?”

“What would you like done with the prisoners?”

The soldier, a man named Ser Clayton Suggs, leads her to the group of captured prisoners. “King Stannis wished to burn them.”

 _Of course he did,_ Lyarra thinks as she lays her eyes on the men and women before her. They seem thinner than the soldiers, their cheekbones prominent and collarbones poking out of their taut skin. Some tremble as they stand, seeming just moments from the Stranger collecting his debt.

“Who are they?” Lyarra asks.

“Rapists, thieves.” Ser Clayton points a grubby finger to the one woman in their midst. “That is Asha Greyjoy, my lady.”

Shock hits Lyarra like a slap in the face. “Asha Greyjoy?”

The woman before her blinks, dark eyes holding many thoughts. “Aye. And you are the bastard of Winterfell?”

“Aye.”

Even Robb is surprised to see Asha.

“I wasn’t aware Stannis had captured you, my lady,” Robb says, his lips thin at the sight of the Greyjoy heir. She has been brought before the King in the North in the dining hall, her face dirtied by mud and her fingers trembling in the cold. Daenerys sits beside the King, interest sparking in her eyes at another would-be Queen. “I’d have thought he would have told me during his visit to Winterfell.”

“Madmen have secrets too, your grace,” Lyarra murmurs, turning back to gaze at Asha. “Why did he want you, Lady Asha?”

“I don’t think it was a matter of want but convenience, your grace.”

She says Robb’s title with a poisonous tongue. Lyarra has to hide a smile.

“I was captured during the fight at Deepwood Motte.” Asha narrows her eyes at the floor as if it is Stannis himself. “Stannis Baratheon thought to use me as a trading tool after the King in the North executed my brother.”

Lyarra has heard little of Theon Greyjoy since reuniting with Robb, but the news of his death does little to comfort her. _Murderer, murderer, murderer,_ the walls sing, just as Robb had done when he had told her while under the furs.

“But your father is dead, and your Uncle is Lord of the Iron Islands, although he styles himself King now.” Daenerys purses her lips, calling a steward forward. “You shall go from Baratheon prisoner to Targaryen prisoner, Lady Asha. Until we decide what to do with you, you shall be contained to your chambers.”

Lady Asha narrows her eyes and sinks into a mocking bow. “Your grace.”

Lyarra leans back in her chair, exhausted. Her hands find the goblet of mead she so desires, shaking her head. “Are we to find a King in every corner, a Queen in every camp? It seems everywhere we go there is someone new waiting to be liberated.”

“It’s war, niece,” Dany murmurs. “This is what war is. Prisoners with the names of great Houses and Lords with the names of bastards.”

* * *

Her limbs ache from their fucking but his embrace leaves her warm.

Once they had returned to her rooms, Robb had peppered her with questions.

“ _You burned?”_ He asked, agape. “ _You threw yourself onto the flames? Are you mad?”_

Lyarra had stared out the window at the dragons flying above. “ _No. Just a dragon.”_

His lips had left her skin bruised, his seed drying on her thighs. It destroys her to part from his embrace, but she knows she must – even just for a moment.

With the taste of moon tea on her lips, Lyarra ventures outside. Her cloak is tied tight around her neck as she wades through the snow, dawn breaking over the wall. She has asked Edd to take her to the King beyond the Wall once again. When she enters his tent, he offers her a smile.  

“A woman can be stolen at this hour.”

“You seem keen to remind me, King Mance,” Lyarra murmurs, squinting out as the sun rises. The title is meant to be a jest, but Mance doesn’t seem in the mood for a laugh.

“And you seem keen for trouble,” Mance taunts. “You think your small blade will keep you safe from men that seek to steal you? Any of the free folk would take that blade, snap it in half and use it against you.”

“Mayhaps,” Lyarra says, “but I would quite like the fight.”

Mance stares at her for a while, before he lets out a great chortle. “You would make a great spearwife, Snow. I’d think to take you for myself if I didn’t fear that dragon of yours.”

“You have no need to fear my dragon,” Lyarra says. “He will only kill you if I command.”

Mance grows sombre. “I hear you’re leaving today. To go back south for your stupid throne.”

“Yes.” Lyarra nods. “I’d much rather stay here, though.”

“Most would,” Mance says. “You’ll be back soon. There is a darkness coming and none shall be safe from it, not even the Southerners.”

“And will you fight when the darkness comes?”

“We freefolk have been fighting for thousands of years,” Mance says. “There is no need to stop now.”

Lyarra nods, her thoughts a thousand leagues away until Mance’s hand clamps down on her arm. “I cannot give you the children that killed the crows. I won’t.”

“You’ve made that quite clear, Mance,” Lyarra snaps. “But you’re a fool if you think I believe that children killed men of the Night’s Watch.”

“We are all fools living in this world of ours.” Mance smiles bitterly. “The men of the Night’s Watch like to call us savages. It’s a fitting word for us, they think, all the while raping, and thieving, and killing just for the sake of it. At least we freefolk are honest about what we are. We protect our own and kill when needed.”

“And their deaths were needed?”

“Aye,” Mance says. “What do you think they were doing, Snow? Out beyond the wall for no good reason, teetering on the edge of a wildling camp. What possible reason could they have?”

Lyarra’s stomach sinks. “What are you saying?”

“The men that died deserved to die,” Mance hisses. “Beyond the wall, we don’t wait for a trial to deliver justice to men that would seek to torture children.”

“And justice was done?”

“Justice is always done.” The tent pulls back, revealing the golden-haired woman. “You’re early, Val.”

“Someone must care for the babe,” Val snaps, pushing passed Lyarra and moving further into the tent.

Lyarra turns her attention back to Mance. “Lord Commander Mormont won’t appreciate your justice.”

“He wants bodies.” Mance clicks his tongue. “He won’t get any.”

“Then you won’t cross,” Lyarra argues. “I can only do so much, Mance. Without the bodies, I cannot convince the Lord Commander.”

“Yes, you will,” Mance says, smiling wide. “For I’m sure you would do anything to keep the freefolk safe if it meant the safety of your family.”

Lyarra’s fury turns cold, her anger as vibrant as the dawning sun. Shoving back, Lyarra grabs Mance by the neck – her nails digging in his skin as her dagger presses to his side. “Threaten my family again and I shall open your throat. Fuck peace.”

“Ah, so your blood runs as hot as mine,” Mance hisses. “You would be quick to throw it all away at the first threat, I can see that, but you needn’t use that blade of yours. I would never think to harm a hair on Robb Stark's head, nor touch the dragon Queen you lot seem so eager to follow.”

“You seemed more than happy to threaten them a moment ago.”

“If I wished to threaten you, I would have cut off a hand,” Mance mutters, growing uncomfortable at her touch. “No, I did not threaten you. I simply wished to tell you some news – on the condition that you will guarantee our crossing.”

“And what news would this be?” Lyarra asks. “What news could possibly have me ignore Lord Commander Mormont's instructions?”  

Mance smiles broadly, showing off his decaying teeth. It is with jubilance that he leans forward, his lips at her ear as he whispers, “I know the location of Brandon Stark.”

Lyarra jolts back, her eyes wide.

Mance laughs louder than ever before. “See, Lady Snow? I _knew_ you would come on side.”

But all she can think is _Bran’s alive, Bran’s alive, Bran’s alive_ as the crows squawk above.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so before you slaughter me for assassinating Stannis' character (which I know is exactly what I did), here are my reasons. The show had Stannis burn Shireen. And while we are nowhere near that point in the books, I think there is a possibility of that happening down the line. And when it does happen, it is at a point of sheer desperation. Hunger fucks with sanity and so does losing a war. The only war that I could simply end the storyline of Stannis (which I feel like was a bit of a cop-out) was through executing him early on. Otherwise, I felt like it was a bit of a dead end plot-wise. I didn't know what else to do with him. 
> 
> And this way, I can have Shireen live on and play an integral part to the future of Westeros. She's now the Lady of Storm's End (yay!). 
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter. While I originally thought I liked it, when editing I wasn't too sure. And because I didn't really get a huge response from the last chapter, I'm gonna take a two-week break between the next update so I can get the next few chapters right. I'm worried I've been rushing my writing and life has been a bit hectic so I want to give myself time to make it right. 
> 
> Question, though. Do you like where the story is going? And who do you think will sit on the Iron Throne at the end? Idk, I'm just doubting myself at the moment - I need your thoughts! 
> 
> To make up for my two-week break, I have a surprise for you guys. As you may know (or may not, idk), I work as a journalist. As such, I had to download a new video editing software last week for my job. But considering I don't have to use it for a few weeks and wanted to make sure I was all across it, I decided to make a trailer for this story. 
> 
> [Here is the trailer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LFnAkF0KDT8&t=24s)
> 
> I'm pretty happy with it. Just a disclaimer, I've never really made a fic trailer before so I based it on a fan trailer for another fic I read last week called A Vow Without Honor. [Check that fic out here!](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10123639/1/A-Vow-without-Honor)
> 
> Reminder: I am taking a two-week break. The next update should be on the 1st of July if the chapter is ready. 
> 
> Song Recs for this chapter: 
> 
> Strong by London Grammar  
> Roslyn by Bon Iver, St Vincent  
> Wicked Game by James Vincent McMorrow  
> Ocean Eyes by Billie Eilish


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